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' Sunrise! 
" Is thy sky overcast, must thou mourn, too? 



PONT lAC 

A Drama of Old Detroit 
1763 



A. C. WHITNEY 




BOSTON 

RICHARD G. BADGER 

THE GORHAM PRESS 
1910 



Copyright 1909 by A: C. Whitney 
All Rights Reserved 






Thb Gorham Prbss, Boston, Ut S. A. 



'C(.D 17940 









MRS. GEORGE W. GILBERT 

In recollection of happy days at Detroit ^ 

This book is affectionately inscribed 

By the Author 



CONTENTS 

ACT I 

Fort Detroit: The River Gate 

ACT II 

EcoRCEs: The Council Place 

ACT III 

Fort Detroit : A Room in the Commandants House 

ACT IV 

The Same 

ACT V 
The Bloody Run 



PERSONS IN THE PLAY 

PoNTiAC, Chief of the Ottawas, 

NiNEvois, Chief of the Pottawatamies, 

Takee, Chief of the Wyandots, 

Teata, Chief of the Wyandots, 

Warsong, Chief of the Objibwas, 

Sekahos, Chief of the Objibwas, 

Manitosiou, a Medicine Man, 

Major Gladwyn, Commanding Fort Detroit, 

Major Rogers, 

Captain Campbell, 

Captain Dalzell, 

Lieut. Schlosser, 

Jean Chapoton, Surgeon at the Fort, 

LaBute, An Interpreter, 

HoGAN, A Trader, 

M. Baby, A Habitant, 

Madame Chapoton, Mother to Jean, 

Madeleine de Tonnancour, Niece to Madam 

Chapoton, 
Catherine, An Indian Girl, (Objibwa) 
A Priest, Pottawatamie chiefs. Habitants, 
CouREURS Du Bois, Voyagcurs, Indians, 
Soldiers, Sailors, etc. 



PONTIAC 



ACT I 

Fort Detroit. The River Gate. A sentinel on the 
palisade scanning the river intently. A serjeant below. 
Two braves lounging against the palisades. Time: early 
morning of May 1st, 1763. 

Ser. — What do you see ? 

Sen. — Not the ghost of a ship. 

Ser. — Strange too. Did you see young Pelletier last 
night ? 

Sen. — No. 

Ser. — Just before the gate shut he rushed in dusty and 
panting, as though he had run the whole way, 
and had just breath enough left to explode *'the 
ship lies off the Wyandot village". Now if they 
were under weigh at daylight they should surely 
be to the bend by this time. 

Sen. — There is little wind. Scarce enough to stem the 
current with. 

Ser. — That's a fact. 

Sen. — And even less there than here. See how heavily 
that smoke rises over Montreal Point. 

Ser. — It is from the Indian encampment at Ecorces, 
though what the rascals are up to I cannot guess. 

Sen. — Rascals! You overpraise the beasts. Do you 



8 PONTIAC 

see these vermin here. — Shall we kick them out ? 
See. — Perhaps. The ship will be along soon and they 

are not very pretty pictures with which to greet 

young innocence. Come! Move on now! You 

are not ornamental you know. 

{Sentinel descends and prods on the braves with 

the butt of his musket. They sullenly "move 

on'' but with a menancing look.) 
1st. Ind. — Ugh! Enghsh heap brave. Got musket. 
Sen. — Stop that now! No talk. Move on you swine. 

(Exit Indians) 

Well rid. Hello! There's Hogan. 
Ser. — Ahoy! You pirate! 

{Enter Hogan staggering under a load of furs.) 

Hog. — To yourself, you grinning long-shanked ape of 
a colonial. Ye will make — 

Ser. — Cut out your blarney and tell me where you have 
been to confiscate that. 'Tis little short of an 
army of Reds you have fleeced to gain that pile. 

Hog. — Where else than at the camp below Springwells ? 

Ser. — You had better keep away from there or the 
ghosts of the poor Reds you have murdered will 
serve you as the white ladies did Jean Chicot. 

Hog. — Never fear. I have a legion of Irish devils that 
will discomfit all the fairies and ghosts in 
Heathendom. — {Produces a bottle) Will ye taste ? 

{Begins to sing) 

Ser. — ^You will have to cut that out. There's to be fine 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 9 

ladies here today and my duty is to throw all 

vagabonds in the river. 
Hog. — Fine ladies ye say. Who will they be? 
Ser. — She that was belle of Quebec, I cannot speak 

the French of her name. 
Hog. — That is one of the ladies. 
Ser. — How many pounds in that pack ? 
Hog. — Oh, twenty, maybe. 

Sen. — Why man, there's two hundred if there is a pound. 
Hog. — It is a delicate bit of a ladies hand I will be 

having that only weighs a pound. 
Ser. — Knave ! 
Hog. — To yourself again. 
Ser. — Why there's no harm to gull the brutes. Ye 

should rather be hung for not killing them. 
Ser. — No need to kill. Your rum does that. How 

much did it take to win the pack ? 
Hog. — The best of two gallons. Not of the nectar of 

Athlone, you understand. That is for the 

special entertainment of myself and my friends. 

Will ye taste? No? Oh! On duty, I see. 

Such a pity. 
Ser. — You had better go easy yourself if you want to 

dance with the ladies. Get along with you now. 

You need a deal of cleaning and prinking — 
Hog. — Never fear the Irish parade when the ladies 

inspect. — {Staggers out with the jurs.) 
Ser. — "No T\Tong to gull the brutes". 

Is it strange they hate us ? Well, we shall 

Pay dear for it when it comes. And no ship yet ? 



10 PONTIAC 

Sen. — None sturdier than a canoe. 

{Voyageurs pass down the river singing '^^ Nous 
avons passe le bois'\ etc.) 

Ser. — Hark, the larks are early carolling. They 
Are come fur-laden home in happy time 
To greet their annointed May-queen. 

Sen. — You are turned very poetic of a sudden. 

Ser. — Do you know I should like to be a voyageur and 
blithely paddle my canoe over the blue lake, 
humming a merry catch, watching the fish jump 
sparkling in the sunlight: or tramp through the 
fresh smelling woods, sleeping on a bed of pines 
in the starlight. 

Sen. — Or live in a smoky hut with the red pigs, chew 
raw dog and glad to get that. Get lost in the 
bush in summer and blizzard bound in winter. 
For an end leave your scalp to adorn the lodge 
pole of a Chippewa brave. Curse this wilder- 
ness. Why do they want to take it away from 
the nasty brutes. Oh! for an eyeful of the 
dingiest, glorious street in Eastchepe. 

Ser. — Why man this is a paradise. See that river, 
glinting in the sunlight, grandly flowing on from 
lake to lake, her peaceful bosom dotted with 
green islands, like emeralds on a queen's robe — 
Hush! Here comes the Major and the Doctor, 
and full of business by their looks. 

{Enter Gladwyn and Chapoton in conversation. 
The Ser jeant retires after saluting. The sentinel 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 11 

salutes and continues marching on the palisade). 

Chap. — I believe it must be so. 

Glad. — Preposterous.' 

Chap. — Nor I alone; those, who more credulous, 

Put faith in marvels, read in that black rain, 

Some direful portent. And 'tis often proved. 

As noted in the antique chronicles, 

That terrible disasters are by signs 

And warnings preluded; which men should note, 

Then act with due descretion. 

Glad. — Fie! 

Chap. — Last night 

As Reaume and Gouin passed the fort, behold, 
Leering and evil on the battlements, 
And eyeing them, the terrible Nain Rouge. 
The blood froze in their veins; and, rooted fast. 
They could not choose but watch; 
While the malignant and the grinning wretch 
With fiendish laughter mocked their terror, till 
With one last horrid threat he bounded off; 
And they, all trembling and exhausted, scarce 
Could stagger home. 

Glad. — Put up your book of tales. 

Chap. — But listen yet. Today St. Aubin comes, 
Cramfull of news, about how that his wife. 
Upon some business on the other shore. 
Chanced on some braves most strangely diligent, 
With saws and files, in cutting short their 
muskets. 



12 PONTIAC 

This he reports and adds what is quite plain, 
Some mischief hatching. 

Glad.— Well ? 

Chap. — Discontent is rife: 

The savages upstirred by drunken dreams. 

By lies and prophecies of France's aid, 

— Inventions of the jealous habitants 

Who hate the name of England — starve for 

trouble. 
We live upon a mine, and Pontiac, 
The blazing brand, will set it off. 

Glad. — Humph! Pontiac! 

Chap. — Bold, resolute, yet crafty, eloquent; 

Ambitious, subtle, treacherous, a savage, 
Yet a Caesar, and to his tribe a god. 
His influence is boundless. He is born 
Chief of two tribes, which he by strength of hand 
And cunning safely rules: besides is chief 
Of the mysterious and all powerful Metai. 
Thirsting ambition, anger at his real 
And fancied wrongs, both make him desperate 
It is not wisdom to let warnings slip 
Unheeded. 

Glad. — No, nor at every creak and sound 

To start and tremble. Caution is often four 
Fourths cowardice, and always some diluted. 

Chap. — Remember too, the haughty chief's stern words 
To daring Rogers, the first Englishman 
To venture here; demanding him how he 
Durst thus permissionless, invade his realm? 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 13 

Confessed he liked his boldness, and thus warned 

him 
So long as with respect, as he deserved, 
They used him, he did wish to live in peace 
With th' English, and their immigration would 
Encourage to his country : but at first 
Neglect, straight would he shut the way. And 

shut 
He will, for your neglect is rank. 

Glad.— Fie! 'Tis 

The jealous mutter of an uneasy rogue. 

Whose vapor frightens you. What dare he do 

Against the might of England ? Do not let 

This mar the day's festivity. Discard 

Your gloomy looks, be jocular, bend all 

Your thought toward our thrice Herculean work 

To 'pose the ennui which must surely come 

With your cousin's sudden change. 

'Twill prove dull play to act the peasant maid 

After the golden revel of Quebec. 

Our welcome must not wan with half-formed 

fears. 
But what's this romance? 

Chap.— I know little of it. 

At some soiree she met this English gallant. 
An aid of Jeffries, a mere lad, unscEooled, 
Unseasoned in the world; just old enough 
To dream of love. Howbeit, uncooled with age. 
They both took^re, which blaze, her guardians 
— Good English-hating French aristocrats — 



14 PONTIAC 

Did vainly hope to snuff, for she, in pique. 

Miss Independence, exiles herself here. 

I would she were not coming. 
Glad. — Fie! Why man, 

You exaggerate your fears. You breed more 
woe 

By brooding on what is. Think o' the luck 

To us. Now May smiles sweetly down, and all 

Is most auspicious. 
Sen. — Ship rounding the bend sir. — {The cry is taken 

up and Serjeant^ Habitants^ stray Indians, etc. 

■flock in.) 
Glad. — Upon the word she comes. 

Serjeant, fetch my glass, {Exit Ser.) 

We could not have a fairer day. 
Chap. — It seems auspicious. — {More Habitants enter,) 

{Enter Herald who salutes and reads:) 

Her. — To the Habitants of Fort Detroit and the Ter- 
ritory, faithful subjects of his serene majesty 
King George the Third; greeting: — 
Whereas, this being the first day of May, and a 
time especially to be celebrated because of the 
arrival of Mademoiselle de Tonnancour, with 
the Captain and crew of the "Prince George", 
her escort, a general holiday and May festival 
is proclaimed. 

By order of the Commandant. 
God save the King. 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 15 

Hab., Soldiers. — (Some in English, some in French) 
Vive le Roi! God save the king! 

Chap. — More are shouting for King Louis than King 
George. 

1st. Hab. — Will it be the good old May-day or an 
English May-day ? Everything is the vile En- 
glish nowadays. 

2nd. H. — Your tongue will lose your head some of 
these fine days. You may profitably agree to 
what you cannot mend. 

3rd. H. — Peace! wranglers. I am told it is to be both, 
part new in honor of the new regime, part old 
in deference to Mademoiselle — 

1st. H. — They say she is sent here because she married 
an Englishman. 

4th. H. — 'Tis a judgement upon her, for she comes 
in a bad time. The Nain Rouge (all cross 
themselves) danced last night on the palisade. 

3rd. H. — Hush! You must speak no ill of her. In 
Quebec she is called the good angel of Sainte 
Ursula. She nursed the soldiers at the siege 
and Jack Duprez says they worshipped her as 
a saint from heaven. 

2nd. H. — I do not believe she married an Englishman. 

1st. H. — But who saw the Nain Rouge ? 

3rd. H. — Reaume. 

5th. H. — And Gouin. 

2nd. H.— What did he look like.? 

5th. H. — Most dreadful. 

3rd. H. — Uncouth and withered, with a bewildering, 



16 PONTIAC 

gleaming eye, which froze them to the ground. 

5th. H. — While all the time, says Gouin, the fiend 
grinned and mocked at them. 

3rd. H. — Le Sieur Cadillac first saw the little dwarf. 
Mere Minique had, months before, in Quebec, 
warned him to pacify it. 

2nd. H. — ^And he did not ? 

3rd. H. — No, he struck at it with his cane, and the 
dwarf bounded away with a threat. From 
that moment ill fortune dogged Le Sieur as it 
has and will dog the colony until the blow be 
paid for. 

2nd. H. — He has been seen since then ? 

3rd. H. — Yes on the Outagamie Fort before the great 
battle. 

4th. H. — Be sure no harm will befall the Colony but 
the little dwarf will give warning. 

1st. H. — I wonder what ill it bodes now ? After the 
black rain something very terrible. — (All de- 
voutly cross themselves.) 

2nd. H. — I am afraid to think of it. 

3rd. H. — Let us ascend the palisade. — (Serj. returns 
with Gladwyn's glass.) 

Glad. — Here take the glass. There's Howard, do 
you see her.^^ 

Chap. — No. 

Glad. — She's in her cabin making final preparations 
to captivate the post. 

Chap. — I will fetch mother. — (Both descend) — 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 17 

(Enter Catherine, exit Chap.) 

Glad. — That troublesome squaw! Truly the gods 
make life a torment to the doer of foolish deeds. 
Yet how save with folly shall a man burst the 
interminable monotony of this exile? In all 
justice the gods should make folly our privilege. 

Cath. — The path between Catherine and her chief is 
growing rank with thorns, and he does not 
hew them down. 

Glad. — In faith, fair Catherine, I have been much op- 
pressed with business of late. And even now 
I must seem cold, for I cannot talk with you. 
We are going to have a little celebration now. 
Stay and share it, and I will speak with j^ou 
when all is over. — (Turns away.) 

Cath. — Much business is no obstacle to much love. 

Glad. — (aside) Heaven send she give not away to her 
weakness and celebrate too liberally, and there- 
upon blab secrets. Too great a conquest is to be 
risked. Riches and the nobility of France to 
boot. What do I fear the boy's love. He's 
gone and such a memory is soon effaced. 

(Re-enter Chap, ivith Madame Chapoton.) 

Chap. — I spie the ill-smelling rogue Hogan. I will 
quiz him. 

(Enter Coureurs du Beds singing:) 



18 PONTIAC 

All hail the hardy pioneer, 

The huntsman bold, the woodsman keen, 
Who traps the fox and kills the deer, 

A valiant man I ween. 



Chorus — We are the bold Coureurs du Bois, 
The children of the woods. 
We trap the fox, and kill the deer, 
All hail to us with high good cheer. 
Hail the Coureurs du Bois. 



(Enter VoyageurSy singing:) 



All hail the dauntless voyageur. 
Who sails the lake in frail bark, 

And from the far north brings the fur, 
A daring man I mark. 



Chorus — Then hail the dauntless voyageur. 
The hero of the lake. 
Who from the far north brings the fur 
All hail to him, let none demur. 
Hail the brave Voyageur. 



{Enter soldiers to a march.) 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 19 

{Enter maidens ivith garlands, singing:) 



Who comes in beauty with the spring, 
When violets and cowsHps bud, 
When chanting birds their anthems sing, 
And echoing woods exulting ring? 
Kind Madeleine, fair queen of May, 
She comes! 



And pretty maidens all are gay, 
Then warble loud your joyous lay, 
Ye little birds, this happy day. 
Sing to the Queen of May. 

(The ship comes to shore. Madeleine , escorted 
by the Captain decends, etc., amid the cheers 
of the Habitants.) 

Glad. — Welcome to Detroit! 

Chap. — A thousand welcomes my dear cousin. 

Mme. C. — Ah! my child, you have a long and perilous 

journey, but, by the blessing of the Virgin, my 

prayers are answered, and you are safe. And 

the more welcome. 
Mad. — And I the more glad to be here. How good the 

solid earth feels. It was so rough on Lake Erie. 
Chap. — And welcome to you good Captain. Have 

you had a troublesome charge ? How have 



20 PONTIAC 

you contrived to keep my merry cousin out of 
mischief these long days ? But we delay the 
preparation. — {Maidens escort MadeUne to the 
throne where she is crowned with a wreath of 
■flowers.) 

Maid. — All hail Madeleine, Queen of May. 

All. — All hail the Queen of May! 

Glad. — {Who has been handed a silver goblet) I drink 
to the health of her most august and gracious 
majesty, Queen Madeleine of May. 

All. — ^AU hail the Queen of May! 

Glad. — I drink to our omnipotent sovereign, His 
Royal Majesty, King George III. 



All. — Grand Dieu sauve le Roi, 

Grand Dieu venge le Roi, 

Vive le Roi! 
Que tou jours glorious, 
Georgius {Some sing Louis) victorieux, 
Voye ses enemis, 
Toujours soumis, 
Vive le Roi ! 
(Drums and trumpets followed by a maypole 
dance and song.) 

Song. 

Hark the merry bells are ringing, 
Welcome springtime, welcome springtime, 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 21 

All the pretty flowers are springing. 
Joyously the birds are singing. 
O'er all, nature, love is flinging. 
Welcome happy springtime. — {Dance con- 
tinues.) 
Chap. — {To Gladwyn) Quietly aside, here's news 
indeed. 
The tribes are gathering below the Rouge 
To hold a powwow, where bold Pontiac 
Besure plans mischief. 
Glad. — WTiere'd you learn all this ? 
Chap. — From that keen witted filthy rascal, Hogan. 
Glad. — He is too drunk to know. 
Hump! drunk, no doubt. 

But not so drunk as the poor reds he pumped. 
Glad. — Where is the place, can one spie on their tricks ? 
Chap. — Recessed in the depths o' the woods at Ecorces, 
The council place beneath an ancient and 
Thick-knarled oak. Here warlike Pontiac, 
Bedaubed and feathered, leads the dance of 

death. 
He's safe. A cat could not unwatched slink 
Through their sure cordon. 
Glad. — I 'gin to fear there's truth in your forebodings. 
What shall we do ? Look, now your cousin 
beckons. 
Chap. — {Crossing to the throne) What is your gracious 

pleasure ? 
Mad. — Draw closer, here. I demand to know what 
you two are so omniously shaking your heads 



22 PONTIAC 

over. You must not be melancholy in my 
kingdom. 

Chap. — Oh me! I know not what to do. Madeleine, 
I wish you had not come. 

Mad. — What! A right royal way to welcome your 
sovereign queen and cousin. What is the matter ? 

Chap. — Matter enough. You know I do not wish to 
play a discord. It is not because I have not 
longed to see you. 

Mad. — What is wrong then .^ Is this what you were 
talking about.? 

Chap. — No. Not exactly. 

Mad. — About what then. Speak plainly. 

Chap. — ^About Pontiac. 

Mad.— Who ? 

Chap. — Pontiac. 

Mad.— Who's he ? 

Chap.— A man. A great and terrible man. 

Mad. — I have never heard of him. 

Chap. — You may hereafter. But enough now, we 

disturb the pleasure. I will tell you all tonight. 

Do not think of it. Dismiss me. 

Mad. — Well, go! But if you do not smile because I 
am come I banish you my kingdom. — {Made- 
leine descends and joins in final tableau.) 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 23 

Song 

Vive la Canadiene, 
Vole, mon coeur, vole, 
Vive la Canadiene, 
Et ses jolis yeux deux, 
Et ses jolis yeux deux. 

Curtain 



24 PONTIAC 



ACT II 

EcoRCES. — The Indian encampment. A camp fire 
upon which a wrinkled old squaw is broiling meat. 
Other squatvs engaged in various domestic ways. A 
group of chiefs and older warriors are joking and telling 
stories. A group of young men are gambling boister- 
ously at little bones. To one side aged Ninevois is 
narrating legends to some children. Meanwhile the 
old squaw places the meat before the chiefs, and receives 
in return from one of them, a trinket to her inordinate 
delight. In the background a dandy alternately admires 
himself in a pocket glass and then looks gravely ahead; 
occasionally stealing furtive glances at the young squaws 
to see if they are admiring him. A young girl behind 
mimics him. Another dandy sings and. hums to him- 
self foolishly, and now and again endeavors to attract 
the attention of the squaws. 

Warriors, dandies, squaws old and young, naked 
children of all sizes, dogs, etc. promiscuously. Tepees 
in back. Time: twilight of the same day. 

NiN. — There, you must not dig your heels in the ground 
so. Walk lightly, thus, that you may leave 
no trail. That is the way. 

IST. Youngster. — Tell us of the thunder bird. 

2nd. Y. — Oh! yes, and of the little boys who dimbed up 
to put out the eyes of the little thunder birds. 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 25 

3rd. Y. — I want to hear about the terrible weendigoe 
who lives in the forest beyond Sand Hills. You 
promised you would tell us that. 

1st. Y. — The thunder bird first. 

NiN. — Well, well, so many sturdy warriors are too 
much for the old man. (Seats himself) Listen, 
little warriors, and I will tell you of Michi-waban; 
he who sits in the east and guides the hunters on 
their journey; he who scooped out the lakes 
and dammed them with cataracts that the fish 
might stay. — (Children flock about him.) 

1st. Y. — Oh yes, and how he made the great big world. 

2nd. Y. — And the trees and the bears. 

NiN. — Listen then. Many, many winters ago; more 
winters than there are leaves on thishugh tree; 
the great waters covered everything. Water 
as far as you can see from the very top of Sand 
Hill in every direction; and as far again, many 
times. On this dreadful waste of waters drifted 
a single raft. On the raft sat Michi-waban, the 
Great Rabbit, and his friends, the beaver, the 
otter, the muskrat, and others. 

1st. Y. — How many others ? 

NiN. — Many. You must not interrupt my narration . 
Long and eagerly the Great Rabbit gazed, first 
this way and then that; but he could spie no land. 
At last he ordered the Otter — the Otter is a 
great fisherman — to dive down and fetch a 
piece of mud from the bottom. The Otter was 
very proud to show what he could do, for he boast- 



26 PONTIAC 

ed thai he was a famous diver. Fearlessly he 
plunged into the black water. When he came up 
his face was as purple as the wild pea; but he did 
not bring any mud. Very much ashamed he 
crawled upon the raft and slunk away and hid 
himself. 

2nd. Y. — Did the Great Rabbit scold him ? 

NiN. — Then the Great Rabbit commanded the Beaver 
to try. Now the beaver is a great swimmer, and 
he stood up very big as if to say "look at me, I 
can dive to the bottom of the biggest lake". 
The cold, mysterious water did not frighten him. 
Down he dived. He stayed under so long that 
everyone thought he must be drowned — They 
had already begun his death chant when suddenly 
up he popped, nearly strangled. They quickly 
dragged him aboard, but he had no mud. 

1st. Y. — Why didn't the Great Rabbit send down a fish. 
I would have sent down a fish. 

NiN. — Let me end my story, then you may tell what 
you would do better than the Great Rabbit, 
who knows everything. 

The Great Rabbit was badly worried. He did 
not know what to do for mud. Suddenly 
Wajashk, the little Muskrat Squaw spoke up 
and volunteered to dive. The others jeered 
scornfully. The little squaw would strive to 
do what the great braves had failed in. Ho! ho! 
Still she begged so earnestly that at last the 
Great Rabbit gave her leave, warning her not to 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 27 

stay under too long or she would drown. Very 
bravely she jumped in. All day the sun marched 
across the heavens, and in the evening dropped 
glowing into the cool lake; but she did not rise. 
"The little fool is drowned", they said. The 
moon rose and set, they had given her up, all 
went to sleep. At break of the morning they 
awoke, and behold! drifting alongside, the little 
muskrat. They dragged her aboard in a hurry. 
Tightly grasped in one paw was a morsel of mud. 
The little squaw had done what the great 
braves could not do. 

1st. Little Girl. — The squaws can do many things 
that the braves cannot do. 

NiN. — Ho ! ho ! little warriors, do you hear that ? Then 
the Great Rabbit took the mud and began to 
work it thus. It grew and grew until it grew 
into an island, then into a big land, and at last 
into the great earth. The Great Rabbit took 
his bow and shot arrows into the earth. These 
became trees. And the animals hunted about 
the new land and found themselves homes 
Michi-waban, or Michabo, as he called himself, 
married little Wajashk, and their children grew 
up to be great warriors. Michabo brought them 
precious copper from his treasure house, and 
the spiders taught them how to make fish nets. 
But see! Crazy Wolf is winning the stakes. 
{Tumult among the gamblers who shout as if 
possessed, calling upon their several manitous. 



28 PONTIAC 

Crazy Wolf at length throws the dish and hones over 
his head with a yell, leaps up and grasps the pile of 
furs and trinkets and rushes into a tepee. The 
others disperse excitedly. Meanwhile the group 
of chiefs talk on unconcernedly.) 

1st. C. — The English chief could not fight in the woods. 
He beat his braves for hiding behind trees and 
made them stand up to be killed. 

2nd. C. — Is it true that the young chief was guarded 
by a Manitou ? 

1st. C. — It is most certain, for twice he stood before 
me and I shot at him. Takee does not miss, 
but the bullets did not strike. His warriors were 
very brave and fought as ours do. Their bul- 
lets whizzed about us like the north wind through 
the pines in winter. But the clumsy footed 
redcoats cannot fight in the woods. They were 
many, and we were but a handful, yet when the 
Hurons and Ottawas led by Pontiac made the 
forest echo with their resounding warcry, the 
Redcoats turned and fled like frightened curs. 
{A rattlesnake glides out of the hushes and is 
immediately surrounded hy admiring Indians 
who call and whistle to it. Mowing smoke at it and 
addressing it with great respect as ''Grand- 
father''.) 
NiN. — He who has provided food for us in these vast 
lakes and mighty forests does not forget hig 
children. He has sent Manitou Kenebec to 
embolden our hearts, to encourage us to victory 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 29 

Hail Grandfather! Our spirits are refreshed, 
our hearts rejoice with thankfulness to the 
Master of Life: He who is ever mindful of his 
children. Return to him with our praises, 
(Snake glides away^ enter Manitosiou ^painted 
black). 

Tak. — Where is the great chief, Pontiac ? 

Man. — Calling upon the Father of Life to grant success 
to his cause. He sees, as in a dream, the mighty 
war-eagle swoop down, he hears his wings flap. 
The eye of the war eagle flashes as lightning 
in the southwest. His voice is the scream of a 
thousand arrows. The prayers of Pontiac are 
answered. His great heart leaps. He will 
wash the paint of mourning from his face. The 
Manitou has heard his call. 

Tak. — See! There he comes. 

{Enter Pontiac in full war costume.) 

PoN. — Success! Success is ours, my warriors; 

The Master of Life encourages our cause, 
And where his eagle leads, who dare not follow! 
The time has come to seize our lands and drive 
These white wolves out. Where are the chiefs ? 

Man. — All here 

But Teata. 

PoN. — Now how long must we wait 

His lordship's independence ? This same moon. 
Which now doth wane, was young — 



30 PONTIAC 

Tak. — He sleeps! 

He dare not lift the hatchet. 
PoN. — Dare not ? What ! 

Tak. — He is a squaw. The black-gown holds his skirt. 

He will not join us. 
PoN. — He or 's scalp will dance 

With us tonight. Let us no longer wait. 

Make ready all. Impatience scorches me. 

(Exit Indians except Pontiac and Manitosiou). 
PoN. — Who was at the fort today? 
Man. — Old Ninevois 

And Takee. 
PoN. Ay! What did they learn.? Do they 

Suspect at all, or seem prepared for war.? 
Man. — Except the nervous French, they are asleep. 
PoN. — Yes. Yes. 

The arrogant and stupid chief can smell no fire 

Until it singe his nose. 
Man. — The war-canoe arrived 

And brought the squaw, our brothers cousin. 
PoN. — Is she like him ? Is she like Chapoton ? 
Man. — She is like the sunrise. 
PoN. — Why, so fair, indeed ? 

Then must she be like him. What did they then ? 
Man. — They danced; I cannot tell, big medicine. 
PoN. — Ay! After their strange fashion. 

Go Manitosiou, prepare for th' council. 

(Exit Manitosiou) 

My brother's cousin come whose praises he 

Has sung so often to me. *'Like the Sunrise'*. 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 31 

Ah! If she were some glorious spirit sent 
By great Michabo, here, to teach our worth 
To him, and win him to our faith. For now 
Our cause stands crowned with the most shin- 
ing hopes. 
The war-birds piercing and triumphant scream 
Thrills in our ears, and golden victory 
Bends to our grasp, have we but friends to help 
us. 

{Enter Catherine) 

Catherine ! 

Cath. — The great chief seeks to speak with Catherine ? 

PoN. — Know you not why.^ 

Cath. — No! How should Catherine know.? 

PoN. — Could she not guess ? 

Cath. — To guess is not to know. 

PoN. — True, true. Yet it would please me much to 
have 
You guess. Then I must tell you why. Ah! 

Catherine, 
See you yond glimmering river ghding on. 
Kissed by the silvery moonbeams, murmuring 
An anthem to Michabo ? Far beyond 's 
A lake, whose watery bosom lies as calm 
Tonight, with that same gentle heaving, that 
Soft rise and fall that tokens the deep sleeper. 
Yet I have seen it when its Manitou 
Was tempest-crossed and angry with the winds. 



32 PONTIAC 

And hurled its mighty surges at the skies 
And drenched the clouds, raging and terrible. 
On such a perilous lake are we adrift. 
Tonight so peaceful, but tomorrow — See! 
The moon draws on a cold and misty hood. 
Ah! Catherine. Who dares combat alone 
The furious storm. Ambition, thirst for power, 
A warrior's will and might, are powerless 
Before the dreadful flood. But love can win. 
Alone both you and I, like frail canoes. 
Crushed by a mighty and relentless sea, 
Must sink: but love is a strong Manitou 
That conquers every storm. Love, I need 
This potent spirit. You can give it to me. 

Cath. — Yes, you are in the dreaming mood tonight. 

It was not so last night; you cursed my mother. 
And beat my harmless brother. Who is safe 
When your mad fit is on. 

PoN. — It made me wild 

To see the puling slave stand singing there 
And here are eighteen hundred warriors bent 
Triumphantly towards war. Is he a squaw? 
Put him in skirts. 

Cath. — He harms you not. 

PoN. — No! Nor 

The crawling worm, but its sight sickens me. 
As for the venerable squaw, your mother; 
We are not bad friends. 
A pouch of solacing tobacco '11 soothe 
Her into loving. Why does she pick at me ? 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 33 

Thinks I will steal her daughter. Life! She 

should 
Be proud. Who offers more than I ? A chief. 
And warrior, reputed great. Aged but 
In wisdom, in love, strength and manhood ripe. 
Your slightest wish cannot I gratify.'^ 
Wealth, glory, influence, fame, power? 
Who can ask more .'* The time is apt to do 
Great deeds : my plans come to a head. Tonight 
The bond is sealed. Tomorrow rises bloody. 
The blow is struck and from the reeking land 
Are swept the cursed English. Ha! You start ? 
Does this not move you ? Speak ! Who greater 

then 
Than we, you and I! Supreme, omnipotent. 
Will you not love me now ? You do not try. 
Then love me for your country, for your people. 
Their hunting grounds usurped, themselves 

cursed, robbed 
And plundered; poisoned with vile rum, and 

menaced 
By the encroaching English, who but lie 
In wait to murder all and seize the land. 
And I might save them if you helped me. Speak ! 
Will you not love to save your people.^ Beats 
Your heart so cold ? Oh ! Catherine, or have 
You none ? Is this a splurge of words, but from 
The lips, a squib that flares and 's out ? No 

more .'' 
It wearies you, then go. 



34 PONTIAC 

(She slinks away) 
No little word to help us to success ? 
Farewell. My sun I thought so gloriously 
Would mount, is clouded in its dawn. 
No: What's a man if his great life and hope 
Must dangle at the girdle of a squaw ? 
No thoughts of love, a pastime for weak peace. 
I am a warrior. 
{Noise of laughter and singing from the camp) 

Shout and sing brave hearts. 
I would the business of this weary world 
Did weigh as light on me. My spirit then 
Would leap and bound as lightly. 

{Enter Manitosiou, who observes him a moment 
unnoticed) 

Man. — My brother's heart is sad. 

I know he nothing fears; what is the cause, 
When all his plans give promise of such hope ^ 

PoN. — ^A passing cloud. No thoughts but those of 
victory. 

Man. — Then here is cause for sadness and for anger; 

{Enter a messenger.) 

Mess. — Teata is come. 

PoN. — Good! Assemble all the warriors. 

{Messenger retires and heats a drum.) 
{To Man.) Seat him next 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 35 

To me. My subtle tongue shall win him. Now 

Expectant hope waits trembling. 

Our nation's fate hangs like an aspen leaf. 

What were you going to say ? 
Man. — Of the last wrong. The poisonous trader 

Has left his black trail on our hunting ground. 

Drugged old Lone Bear with spirit water, stolen 

His furs, and worse, has spoiled the flower of her 

Pure virtue, wilting her forever. 
PoN.— Who? 

Man. — The maiden Sonaweyha. 
PoN. — As the great 

Giver of Life doth rule in Heaven above, 

For every canker that these dogs have bred 

Ten scalps shall pay. 

(They retire. Enter Catherine.) 

Cath. — Catherine will watch closely here. She may 
hear something that will prove a sharp hoe to 
clear the briared path to the white chief's heart. 

{Hides herself) 

{Enter Indians: Ottawas in gaudy blankets, 
cincured Objibwas with fluttering feathers, quivers and 
light clubs; Hurons in painted shirts, their leggings 
garnisJied with bells, and feathers in their hair. All 
squat in a circle about the fire. The calumet is solemnly 
passed around. 



36 PONTIAC 

PoN. — My brothers : I kindle a great council-fire whose 
smoke shall rise to heaven in view of all the na- 
tions while you and I sit and smoke at its blaze. 
{To the Hurons, presenting a belt of wampum.) 
My brothers: I give you this belt that you, who 
have been a different nation, may know that we 
are now one. 

(To the Ohjihwas, presenting a similar belt.) 
My brothers : I give you this belt to unstop your 
ears that you may hear plainly what we say. 
PoN. — {To the Pottawatamies, presenting a belt.) 

My brothers : I give you this belt that it may clear 

your throats that you may speak freely. 

My brothers: Listen to my words. 

A prophet of the Delawares who yearned, 

From the Great Spirit's lips to catch the pearls 

Of wisdom, prayed and fasted to be taught 

How he might reach the Master's wigwam. 

Dreams 
Revealed the straight, undeviating pathway 

thither; 
And in high hope, accoutred, he set forth. 
Eight days he traveled through mysterious 
And gloomy forests. Wearied, footsore, he 
Lay down beside his evening fire and watched 
The shadows dance among the trees: when, lo! 
Behold before him, white and dazzling, 
A mountain glorious in the morning sun; 
Whose snow-crowned head upreared to heaven. 
And sides precipitate, defied ascent. 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 37 

Despair — 

1st Squaw — {In back) My beads are better. 

2nd. Squaw — Mine the prettier 

They gleam with such a splendor as the sun, 
Whose lustre outshines all. 

PoN. — Silence those chattering hags! 

{Indian *' policemen'' proceed to do so with clubs*') 
{continues) Dispair and anguish in his heart, 

he turned — 
A woman, beautiful, arrayed in white, 
As he looked up arose and spoke: "How hope 
You thus encumbered to succeed ? Go ! cast 

away 
Your gun, your clothing, powder and provision; 
Unsling your kettle; wash you in the stream 
That laps the mountain's foot. Then you will be 
Prepared to stand before the Master. He 
Obeying 'ssailed the steep ascent, and conquer- 
ing, 
At length attained the summit. Spread before 
Him lay a fertile plain with villages 
Of thrifty look, unlike our squalid huts. 
He paused bewildered, when a warrior 
Approached, in gordeous raiment, and with 

words 
Of cheery welcome, guided him into 
Michabo's presence. O'erwhelmed by the splen- 
dor 
Which shone in dazzling brightness, he fell down; 
And the Great Master bade him rise and spoke 



38 PONTIAC 

These words: 

(Ejaculations of wonder and admiration from 
the Indians) 
PoN. — (Continues) My brothers : thus Michabo spoke : 
** I am the maker of heaven and of earth, 
The lakes and rivers, trees, and all things else, 
The Master of Life. I made you and because 
I love you you must do my will. This land 
On which you live I made for you and not 
For strangers. I made the beasts to clothe 

and feed 
You; gave you bows and arrows, taught you how 
To fish. I gave you fire and all things else 
To make you happy. You have played the fool ! 
Where are the furs and weapons that I gave you ? 
The old traditions are forgot. You have 
Bought guns and blankets from the pale face. 

Drunk 
The rum which turns you into beasts. Away 
With these and live as your wise fathers have 
For ages lived before you. Why do you let 
These red-clothed dogs usurp your hunting 

grounds ? 
My anger is against them, they are come 
To steal your country. Drive them out, des- 
troy them; 
I will aid you. Spare the longknives, they 
Are very dear to me and love my children. " 
(Ejaculations of approval.) 
PoN. — (Continues) My brothers: You have heard 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 39 

the master's words: 

This land is ours by just inheritance. 

When first the whitemen came we called them 

friends ; 
Used them as brothers; shared our lodges with 

them. 
Did ever starving Englishman crawl to our tents 
And was not warmed and feasted ^ 
Then they gave us presents, and, with softest 

words, 
Assured their love and begged a little land; 
Which we did gladly grant. Where is our land ? 
Now we must beg from them grown insolent 
And haughty. Each day they crowd us more 
My brothers: soon we will lack where to spread 
Our blankets. These white wolves have killed 

our game; 
Have burned our forests, ravished our fair lands. 
They curse us, rob us, cheat us, at our just 
Remonstrance, spurn us like a cur. Make drunk 
Our braves, then use our helpless women; beat 
Our little children. Even now Lone Wolf 
Lies poisoned in his wigwam, plundered by 
The insatiable trader; all his arduous 
Long winter's hunting gone to naught. Nor is 
This all, for the foul wretch. 
Stealing a lewd advantage of the time. 
Has robbed the blameless maiden Sonaweyha 
Of what is more than life. 
My brothers : 



40 PONTIAC 

How long shall such iniquity go unpunished ? 

These evil whites have driven out the French, 

And only seek pretext to murder us. 

Shall we sit here like squaws and let them slay us ? 

Warriors ! Men ! 

Love you your honor more than rotting sloth? 

What coward will nor rise to save his country ? 

Your lands, your lives, your squaw's and child- 
ren's lives, 

Your sacred worship, all are threatened now. 

Warriors ! 

He who made us calls on you to save 

His children. 
Indians. — Hough ! Hough ! 

PoN. — Who dares not, let him once look 

On this. Here is a belt sent from the Great 

French Father. Now his sleep is done. He 
hates 

The redcoat horde. His war canoes wing swift 

Across the seas to aid us. Speak! Shall we 

Avenge our wrongs ? 
Ind. — Hough! Hough! Yes, Yes. 

PoN.— When ? 
Ind . — Now ! Now ! 
PoN. — (Flourishing a tomahawk) Who will pick up 

the hatchet ? (Flings it into the ground) 
Warsong. — (Jumps and grasps it) The bones of my 

brothers 

Who fought at Fort Duquesne lie uncovered and 

scream for vengeance. 



1 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 41 

{Takee grasps tomahawk) 

Takee. — The Hurons are always foremost in battle. 

PoN.— And Teata too? 

( Teata picks it up and flourishes it for silence) 

Tea. — Brothers! Brave Pontiac has stirred the slug- 
gish heart of Teata with his great words. Teata 
will not sit in camp w^ith his squaws. He will 
be seen leading his warriors, the fierce Wyandots 
in the front of battle; proud if his blood be shed 
to save his country. My brothers; let Teata 
first depart to worship the Great Spirit with his 
friend the Black Gown. 

Ind . — Hough ! Hough ! 

PoN. — Valorous chief — 

Ind. — Hush! hear Pontiac. 

PoN. Your words inspire our hearts with courage. 
Teata is a true Huron. 

Ind. — Hough! Hough! Hough! 

NiN. — (Grasps the hatchet) My children! I am a 
withered tree. Chief Ninevois, the warrior, 
glorious in warpaint and sixty feathers of the 
eagle, terrible to his enemies, is now no more. 
Old tottering Ninevois cannot lead his braves 
to battle. He must stand aside and watch his 
young men win the trophies of victory. He 
cannot lead you, but he bids his children follow 
noble Pontiac. Fight for your people and your 
country until the last drop of your blood has 
strained the dust of your hunting ground. 
May victory smile. The old man's blessing 



42 PONTIAC 

is with you. I have done. 

PoN — Venerable chief : 

The heart of Pontiac throbs too full for words; 
You have broke down all barriers to success, 
And victory is in our grasp. 

(Suppressed excitement among the Indians.) 

PoN. — My brothers: 

Ind. — Hush! Hear Pontiac. 

PoN. — We talk like women, noisy, garrulous. 
Without a plan. But listen, ere the sun 
His upward journey well begins, mass at 
The fort, where I, with fifty picked braves 
Will hold a council, smoke a calumet. 
With the unsuspecting whites. Conceal these 
guns 

(Holding up a sawed off musket) 
Beneath your blankets. 'Wait the sign, and 

when 
I raise this belt, fall on the garrison. 
Avenge your wrongs. We're not alone. I've 

sent 
A wampum belt of war to all the nations, 
And bid them strike and seize their lands. Avenge 
Your wrongs! Spare none but Frenchmen! 
War! War! 

Cath. — (Who has been lurking near) Catherine, quick 
to the fort to warn your chief. 
This news will surely win his love. (Exit) 
(The tumult which follows is quelled by Mani- 

iosiou who begins an incantation^ the Indians fall bach 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 43 

but join in the refrain^ dancing. Pontiac begins a war- 
song; the other chiefs join in, and all the Indians, chant- 
ing their exploits, brandishing tomahawks, clubs, 
torches, etc., form a circle about the fire, dancing, yelling 
and cutting imaginary scalps from the scalping post) 



INCANTATION 

(accompanied by tom tom) 
Man. — Nouchimouin nipakia 

Mispigaye nantobali. 

Kitchi nantobalichick, 
Nipa Kagouitch, takouan, 
Simagan gay' pakakoa 

Pimousse nantobalem. 
Nima, Nima, Chi-chi-kou-e, 
Chichikoue, chichikoue. 

All — Chorus — Nima, nima, chichikoue, 
Chichikoue, chichikoue. 



PoN. — WARSONG 

My people hearken, 
My warriors. 
My fearless ones. 
Attend the exploits of Pontiac. 

The warriors of the North, 
The fierce and valiant in battle, 



44 PONTIAC 

Where are they now ? 

In the lodges of the north, 

The women wail. 
The warriors do not return, 

Upon the lodge pole. 
The tall tepee pole of Pontiac's 

Hang thirty seven scalps. 
In the lodges of the north 

The women wail. 

My brothers hearken, 
Invinvibles, 
Unconquerable in war. 
Whose prowess doth excel the valorous Pontiac's ? 

Where are the red-coated warriors, 

The proud ones. 
Who marched in battle array ? 
Where is the chieftain, bold and arrogant. 

Who led the warriors ? 
In the recess of the forest, 
— The Monangahela knows — 

Their bones lie whitening. 

Exult! My brothers! 
The bones of the warriors who marched in bat- 
tle array. 

Lie whitening. 
A thousand short haired scalps. 
Are playthings for the little ones. 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 45 

My sleeping warriors, 

My brothers: — rest! 
Your death shall be avenged, 
Not fifty, nor a thousand scalps 
Shall quench the fury of the vengeance. 
Your murderer's blood shall moisten 
The violets on your graves. 

My brothers! Rest! 
Your children shall sing, 
Your ^vidows cease to mourn. 

Arm! My warriors! 
Brandish the war club, 
Flourish the hatchet, 
To war! To war! 
As the leaves before the hurricane 
Are the English before the vengeance of Pontiac. 



Curtain 



46 PONTIAC 



ACT III 

Fort Detroit. A room in the Commandants 
house. A window overlooking the river and court. 
Time: evening of the same day. Chapoton, Madame 
Chapoton and Madeleine discovered in conversation. 

Chap. — God did not intend this land 

To be a trackless wilderness forever, 

The bloody hunting ground of savages. 

Our reason speaks: its richness was intended 

For those whose thrift and wisdom teach its use. 

How bitter is it, though, for us, who loved 

The wild and virgin beauty, to behold 

It wasted by these white barbarians 

These hordes of English, plundering the land, 

And ruining its proud and former lords; 

Poor lords: whose destiny 's to fall. But not 

Without a struggle. 

Mad. — Do you fear an outbreak? 

Chap. — As sure as English rum, for its abuse. 
Brings Indian revenge. For Pontiac 
Whose proud unbuckled spirit will not brook 
The English contumely, 's mad for war. 
His mind 's a seething cauldron of invention 
Continually boiling over mischief. His 
Ambitious soul pictures a long house. 
As he calls it, reaching from the eastern sea 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 47 

To the snowy western peaks, enclosing all 
The nations, he imperial sachem. 

Mad. — He's 

A very hero, a Roman, not a savage. 

Chap. — He is a king of men. Noble in all. 
As generous as brave I ever found him. 
I knew him as a boy; we played together, 
Fished for the muscallonge or chased the swift 
And nimble wapiti. We shared our meal. 
And slept as brothers, snugly in one blanket. 
Then little thought we had of bitter strife 
And hated English rule. We wild and free, 
The forest was our home. 

Mad. — Why was I born 

A girl ? I too would range the mighty woods, 

And hunt its wild and native habitants, 

And where some brawling brook provides his 

wealth 
Of crystal liquor, seek a nook sequestered. 
Make fresh my bed of balsam boughs, and lie 
And count the stars. Why cannot girls do this ? 

Mme. C. — Perhaps, my child, you also would dispense 
With these encumbrances, and native-like 
Skip naked. 

Mad. — Yes! yes! Anything to burst 

The bonds of sickening convention. I 
Will too. Now tell me more of Pontiac. 

Chap. — I never knew a man so fierce in war. 

So loving to his friends. As he would strive 
To the utmost final breath for vengeance on 



48 PONTIAC 

His foes, so would he strive to benefit his friend. 
Faults he has, true. They are his races faults. 
Ambition, treachery, for they all believe 
What craft will win 'tis ill to risk by force. 
A battle is scarce won where men are lost. 

Mad. — Though his skin be red, my heart warms to him. 
He is more god than savage. Say! When shall 
I meet this prince of warriors ? Why came 
He not to grace my coronation. 
Thinks he I am usurping in his kingdom .^^ 
He should have crowned me. Royal, then, 

indeed, 
Were such a coronation. Will he come 
Or not ? 

Chap. — Ay! too soon. 

Mad. — Why, do you fear him ? 

Do you fear your brother? 

Chap. — I fear for him. 

He climbs to giddy heights, which ere he scale. 
Those who now loudest laugh will wail. Or if 
He fall, his crash will sound the downfall of 
A noble race. And he its only hope 
Against the white invasion. 

Mme. C. — True, my child; 

You little know the terror and the havoc 
Of Indian war. The country desolate, 
The houses burned, and those poor folk escaped 
Destruction, 'hap with daughters mutilate 
Or fathers slain, cooped up dispairing in 
Some frail blockhouse. I have seen with mine 



I 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 40 

Own eyes a furious and yelping demon 
Tear from a living child her scalp and leave 
Her dying there; her shrieking mother tied 
To watch her. 

Mad. — Oh! heart-rending scene! Why did 

They not kill you ? 

Mme. C. — My father chanced once 

To save a Mohawk's life, which deed they ne'er 
Forgot. And when the Iroquois crept on 
LaChine, and slaughtered there two hundred 

souls, 
— A fearful vengeance for Denonville's wrongs — 
My life, almost alone was spared. I was 
A child then, but the horror of that night 
Doth haunt me still. 

Mad. — And well it might. I should 

Ne'er sleep again. Ah! Virgin Mother, guard 
Us all. But if this chief begs war will they 
All aid his great designs ? 

Chap. — His influence 

Surpasses marvel. From the province to 
Th' remotest lake, as Metai Chief, his name 
Is watchword to a legion : and to prop his power 
Against all failing he most craftily 
Has sealed close treaty with the various chiefs. 
With Takee and old Nestor Ninevois, 
The wise and venerable Pottawatamie, 
With the warlike chief Sekahos, and that fiend. 
That devil's butcher, bloody Warsong. 

Mad.— ' Why! 



50 PONTIAC 

What dreadful deed is his that starts you so ? 
I never saw you thus. 

Chap. — Oh ! foul and cruel ! 

God's vengeance strike him down, the mur- 
derous devil. 

Mme. C. — He is the great Destroyer's chosen slave 
To wreak atrocious wrong. Christ pity all 
His foes. Ah! dearie, 'tis a fearful tale, 
You tell it to her Jean. 

Chap. — 'Tis brief as bloody. 

At mouth of River Rouge looms gloomily 
An old deserted mill; the favored haunt 
Of bats and hooting owls, and crawling spiders 
The great gaunt arms and ragged shivering sails, 
With gruesome creak, sweep ghostly in the moon- 

Hght: 
An eerie spot. The voyageur doth hush 
His carol, passing silently. The brave 
With frightened stroke, pushes his frail bark 
Far out beyond the reaching shadow. 

Mad. — Horrors ! 

What woe must come; I shudder at the prologue. 

Chap. — A place fit for the fiend to grind his grist. 

Here lived the half-breed Renaud, and his 

daughter : 
A maiden whose rich native dignity 
Mingled with her French sprightliness and 

charm 
To such eflFect that many pilgrims hied 
In worthy adoration to this rural shrine: 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 51 

Among them Campbell and this savage chief. 
In warlike paint and plume he courted well. 
But uselessly; the softer Scottish accent 
Did win the day, the soldier stood preferred. 
Warsong afire with savage jealousy 
And wounded pride, burned furious for revenge. 

Mme. C. — Incarnate fiend! 

Chap. — With true French ardor old 

Renaud dispised the English. Then, where 

force 
Nor beauty's tender pleadings naught avail, 
Deep strategy must win. Renaud gone hence; 
A gleam of candle light across the water 
Signaled awaiting love that danger was 
Away; when, from a near by copse rushed out 
The unsuspected and malicious foe. 
Scarce stopping to upbraid he furiously 
Raised up his murderous tomahawk, which down 
Decending drenched itself in blood, most sweet 
And innocent of fair Detroit. 

Mad. — Oh grief. 

Oh piteous sight. 

Mme. C. — Oh monstrous, monstrous deed. 

Chap. — Not satiate, another victim yet 

Revenge demanded, and soft plash of oars 
Informed the gloating fiend love's summons were 
Obeyed; when sudden noise proclaimed the 

approach 
Of Renaud and his friends. With hasty blow 
The cruel foe hacked off a tender arm, 



52 PONTIAC 

Which ghastly trophy he doth ever keep 
To nurse his cursed revenge. A pouch 
To hold peace pro-moting tobacco. 

Mad. — Ah, poor Captain, 

I understand now why you did not smile; 
You seemed alone and took no joy nor part 
In the day's festivals. I wondered then. 
My heart bleeds for you poor, poor man. 
Mary Virgin, comfort him, he needs 
Your help. Oh! bloody, bloody deed; 

And then — 

Mme. C. — To feast on the crime at every puff of smoke. 

Mad. — What sights my fancy pictures. How if he 
Were here, and I had fallen thus; or I 
iVbroad upon some pleasant expedition, should 
With startled cry, trip on his mangled form. 
Oh ! Hideous thought ! Where is he now } 
Since I 

Did leave Quebec I have not heard. He planned 
To meet me here, I prayed he should; 
Now my most fervent prayer to heaven is 
"From this fell wilderness. Oh merciful God, 
Deliver him." 

Mme. C. — Dalzell is far from here, 

Safe anchored in the merry capital. 
My love, you must not think upon these things. 
To your imagination heated give no scope. 
Your heart burns hot and feverish; gentle sleep 
Will soothe that wearied brain. 

Mad. — Talk not of sleep! 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 53 

I shall not sleep again. Hark ! what's that noise ? 
Why don't you speak ? 

Chap. 'Tis like the howHng far 

Away o' th' wolf pack. 

j^Aj) ' No! It is not wolves. 

Chap.— Look through the window. Can you see at all ? 

Mme. C— My son, I know it well, too well. Listen! 
It is the howling of the fiercest wolves 
That God did e'er create. E'en so far 
Away the sound doth chill the blood with terror. 

Chap.— Speak cheerfully to Madeleine. Yet, methinks 
This is the first act of a tragedy. 
That tragedy has many fearful scenes 
Which Pontiac plays. I dare not think what follows. 

Mad.— The sky glows softly red beyond the Point. 

Chap.— It is at Ecorces, there the noisy tribes 

Assemble to a pow wow. Thou mayst see 
A many a brave, grotesque and fiercely painted. 
Adorned with trophies of the war and chace. 
With horrid din, leap in 's demoniac whirl. 
Perchance it is their Mayday. 

I^AP Ghastly one, 

My heart stops beating at the sound. 
Oh my dear cousin, how are you content. 
You, who have lived in gay and happy France, 
To dare the frontier's perils, and to live 
In this blood reeking wilderness? 
Chap.— Oh! child, 

'Tis not so bad as that. I think you do 
Repent your coming hither. The dreariest place 



54 PONTIAC 

Has some advantages, and this has very many. 

Mad. — Yet don't you often long for better things ? 

Will you forgo the hum and bustle of the world. 
The opera, the gay society. 
The brilliant court and the great life of Paris, 
Which you have tasted, and surplace it with 
This cabin life and this plain peasant fare; 
This rude and wild, unbroken wilderness ? 

Mme. C. — I thought I heard a little girl once wish 
That she were born a boy, so she might live 
And hunt deep in the wild ? 

Chap. — How so! How so! 

Oh transformation sudden. You'll not need 
My buckskin breeches ? Oh, you pretty slave 
Of sickening convention. I had thought 
To see you painted like a warrior. 
Swift changing woman — 

Mad. — Stop and answer me. 

Chap. — Oh cousin mine, to long for, strive for things 
More nobler, higher, should be our first aim. 
But we are fools of fate, like abjects are 
Compelled to serve her least injunction. Yet 
Oft-times when most she seems contrary to 
Our wish she teaches us our good: as here. 
By stern experience I have been taught 
To seek my path along some quiet stream; 
For only there is true contentment found: 
Far from the tinsel of the courtly world 
With all its vain ambition. I am led 
Into a life not lonely, nearer God. 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 55 

Mad. — How is it nearer, here ? 

Chap.— Oh! better far ^ 

That hum of people in the mighty mart 
Is the soft music of the forest: 
The murmuring river, the deep sighing pines. 
The ceaseless babble of the noisy creek. 
The droning bees. More than the great cathe- 
drals 
I love the temple of the woods, so grand, 
So silent, but for the great solemn organ 
Whose bass is falling water and whose treble 
The wind in th' pines. 

Mad. — It is His holiest temple. 

Chap. — Of all the operas 

I love the sweeter carol of the birds. 
The lark who rises with the sun and sings 
To heaven on high; the merry bob'o-link; 
The humorous and trick-loving jay; the wren, 
A nervous housewife; the sweet vespering 

sparrow ; 
And the gentle robin, sing the comedies. 

Mad. — Oh! beauteous opera! 

Chap. — Then the wierd night birds 

Enact the tragedies. The poor-will's-widow ; 
The hooting owl who brings the cold north wind; 
The wheeling night-hawk, with his eerie "peent ". 

Mad. — Fit actors for a dreadful midnight horror. 

Chap. — With the wild wood's fragrant flower can. 
To me, no perfumed lady of the court 
Compeer. The delicate arbutus born 



56 PONTIAC 

Of fleeting snow, sweetly announces spring. 
The nodding wind-flower and the gold-cups warn 
'Tis time to plant ; and e'er the wheat doth sprout 
The modest violet reigns in royal state, 
Beloved of all. In yellow harvest time. 
Hot afternoon of summer, 
Amid the pluming corn, the brilliant cone-flowers 
And th' glorious goldenrod burst forth. At last, 
E'er winter's night shuts out the busy scene. 
Comes Indian summer, and good mother earth 
In sunset glory robes herself. The sumac. 
The scarlet turning oak, the golden maple. 
Each vie in gordeousness. Then comes the 

sad time. 
Summer dying, until in new joy, 
With clear, sharp, frosty nights, and sparkling 

snow, 
iVnd stars out-passing brilliance, winter arrives. 
Season of play and sport and merry sleigh-bells; 
Joyous Christmastide. 

Mad. — It is a hfe 

Closer to God indeed, I love it. 
Who could not help but love it.? 

Chap. — I love the river, 

That majestic stream, gem-spangled with 
The emeralds of the god's. With stately glide 
She sweeps from lake to lake. 
A friend most cheering and most comforting 
To heal the wearied mind. 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 57 

(Enter a messenger) 

Mess. — (To Chapoton) The Major, sir, 

Would speak with you. 
Chap. — At this late hour.^ What can 

He want ? I'll follow straight. Will you ex- 
cuse me ? (Exit Mess, and Chap.) 
Mad. — A poet sure. He almost speaks in rhymes. 

A woodland votary, and yet unused 

And tedious, I guess, in ball-room prattle. 
Mme. C. — He's writ some poems, but will not publish 
them. 

Cries out upon the mercenary age; 

And says there lives no man whose ear is tuned 

To poetry, save only one in England; 

A certain Mr. Gray. 

(Re-enter Chapoton with Gladwyn) 

Chap. — 'Tis five times folly I should let you broach it. 
Glad. — It is my privilege, at any rate. 

To try. 
Chap. — (aside) Most sure the quickest way to end 

The matter. Come, mother, come. 'Tis very 
late, 

A breath of air upon St. Anne's, and then 

To bed. 
Mad. — Oh! don't leave me. 
Glad. — With your permission, 

I will detain you but a moment. 



58 PONTIAC 

Mad.— What 

D' you wish? 

Glad. — To speak with you alone. 

Mad. — You can 

Say nothing that my cousin must not hear. 

Chap. — Come mother. 

Mad. — Oh! So all have conned their cues. 

Chap. — We'll not go far. (Exit Chap, and Mme. Chap.) 

Glad. — Mademoiselle — Ah — the air is close in here, is 
it not ? I will open a window. That is refresh- 
ing. Hark! How that sound carries all these 
miles. The wind is from the south. Our red 
friends are having a brave celebration. Have 
you ever witnessed an Indian dance ? No ? 
It is quite an experience. This air is not too 
chilly for you ? I have lived so much in the 
field, I suppose, that I always feel choked and 
restless indoors. A soldier's life is rough and 
hardy on the frontier. It gives no chance to 
cultivate refinement. But my soldiering here 
will soon be done. 

Mad. — You had something particular that you wished 
to say to me? 

Glad. — Ah, Mademoiselle, I am pure Saxon and know 
not how to come to a subject nicely, but what 
I lack in art I will amend in vigor. And if I 
be not misinformed our plain English has not 
always struck your ear unmusically. Madem- 
oiselle, I love you, love you a thousand times 
more than your glibbest Frenchman can prattle. 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 59 

Mad. — Why! What do you mean sir? 

Glad. — I know this is rashly sudden. How can I 
help it? I cannot expect you to feel as I do, 
but I want a word of hope to thrive upon. 

Mad. — You are unkind to speak this way. 

Glad. — Yes, presumptouus, but not in wish. I am 
plain and blunt, I cannot flatter you. Am I 
not the more to be trusted then? Mademeoi- 
selle, can you love an unvarnished man? One 
just so much seasoned by age as to lose the 
vanity of youth ? One who will love you with 
an honest sterling worth that will out — 

Mad. — Stop! How dare you speak to me so! 

You know I am betrothed, and were I not, 
I would not marry one I did not love. 

Glad. — Time may amend that. A little love increas- 
ing is better than a conflagration that consumes 
its fuel. As for Dalzell, why do you think of 
liim? Do you still hear from him? Has he 
not been as dead these months? Why, he is 
overwhelmed in that gay colonial society; and 
if he have not already surrendered to some 
lisping title seeker, it is not for being unassailed. 
Why remember him ? 

Mad. — Do you forget so easily? For shame! 

Then urge not love. Were I so weak, so frail. 
So faithless, to forget my pledge, how could 
You wish me? Is that love? The quackery 
Of love! 

Glad. — Upbraid me not 



60 PONTIAC 

But try me, you will find I am true metal, 

Attempered well, let me not go unproven. 
Mad. — No more. 
Glad. — What's a title shorn of lands ? 

Small comfort. Isle aux Peche, once Pontiac's 
home, 

I own, and other farms and an estate 

In England. 
Mad. — Love's not bought with lands. 

Glad. — But 
Mad. — This is unchivalrous, a wrong to me 

And her of whom 'tis noised abroad, she is 

The just possessor of that honor 

You would thrust on me. 
Glad. — It is false! 

{Enter Sentry, who salutes) 

What is it now? 
Sen. — Catherine, the Indian girl, demands to see you. 
Glad. — I'll not see her. 
Mad. — Nay, but pardon me. 

It is her right — See, she comes. 
Sen. — {to Catherine) You must wait, he is busy. 
Cath. — {Pushing by and entering) Catherine will 

see him now. 
Glad. — God's plague upon her. 

{Enter Chapoton behind) 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 61 

Mad. — Fair Catherine, good morning; 

Is it not morning now? {To Chap.) Did you 
hear all ? 
Chap. — Enough to know. Come, leave him to his 
amours. 

And seek the kind physician sleep. My faith, 

These English. 

(Exit Chap, and Madeleine) 
Cath. — She called me fair. Her eyes are black like 
mine. 

Her skin is fairer, rose where mine is copper. 
Glad. — Well! Is this your haste .^ 
Cath. — Why should hers be better.^ Copper is more 

precious, as rich in ornament, more good for use. 

It will be copper still when the rose is forgotten. 
Glad. — Dreaming! What was the mad haste? 
Cath. — Oh! I bring my chief some moccasins worked 

with the cunning beadwork of the Objibwa 

maidens. 
Glad. — They might have waited one moment. 
Cath. — Does not my warrior like them.^ 
Glad. — Oh! yes, they are very pretty. I wondered 

why, when the Geebi chatter among the trees, 

you stole so far in the night to bring them. 
Cath. — Should not Catherine come for her great 

warrior's love.'' Does he not want her.^ 
Glad. — There is something weightier on your mind, 

what is it ? 
Cath. — The great chief does not love Catherine now, 

the pale rose has stolen his heart away. 



62 PONTIAC 

Glad. — Why should I love her, she is another man's 
squaw ? 

Cath. — Whose squaw? 

Glad. — Why, a red-coat captain's. 

Cath. — No! No squaw, only maiden; only rosebud 
still. 

Glad. — Well, she will be. Where is Pontiac now? 

Cath. — He will be here today. Why does the great 
chief not love Catherine now? She is no 
longer bud ? Is open flower not so pretty ? 

Glad. — Why, so I do love you. What would you have 
me do, fawn on you and lick your cheeks like 
a love-sick boy ? Here today ! How ? When ? 

Cath. — The great chief has plucked the flower. Will 
he throw it away? — or keep it? 

Glad. — Keep it ? Of course he will keep it ? 

Cath. — Will the great chief always love Catherine ? 

Glad. — Certainly he wifl, why shouldn't he? Tell 
me, what does Pontiac come for? 

Cath. — Blood. 

Glad. — Blood ? What do you mean ? Speak out ? 

Cath. — Listen. At sunrise he comes with fifty braves 
to smoke the peace pipe. Outside is good, all 
very good; but inside is all bad. See, in their 
blankets they have thunder-sticks. {Display- 
ing a sawed off musket) 

Glad. — St. Aubin's word. 

Cath. — Pontiac will make very good talk. It is the 
rattle, rattle, that fools the little squirrel. The 
snake is coiling. When the belt of wampum is 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 63 

lifted, as a flash of lightening, he will strike. 
His braves will kill, kill, kill ! Kill all the En- 
glish, here, everywhere; all the forts. Only the 
Longknives may live. 

Glad. — St. George defend us. {Strikes a bell) 

(Enter Sentry) Call Chapoton and Campbell 
quickly. {Exit Sentry) 

Cath. — Oh! Catherine should not have spoken. 
Pontiac will torture her to death. 

Glad. — Hush, you are safe here. How did you learn 
all this ? 

Cath. — I have told too much. 

Glad. — Yes, to go back to him; now tell all to make 
you safe here. Come, how was it ? 

Cath. — The warriors of many nations are gathered to 
smoke the calumet and hear the words of the 
mighty sachem. Pontiac has told them to 
drive the English from their lands. Many 
white men will he slain tomorrow. The bullets 
will fly like birds. The ground will be colored 
like the sumac leaves in autumn. Catherine 
was at the council and heard this. It is true 
talk. 

{Enter Campbell and Chapoton) 

Glad. — Yes, yes, you are tired, go find mother Dubois, 
tell her I sent you, she will find you a place to 
sleep. {Exit Catherine) 

Camp. — What now will the trouble be, more murder ? 



64 PONTIAC 

Glad. — Yes, the arch-devil and his villainous horde 
come purporting to smoke a calumet. At a 
sign they will drop their peace robes and fall 
on the garrison. But the treacherous scoundrel 
is overreached this time, here. 

Camp. — Here ? 

Glad. — God pity the other posts if they are not warned. 

Camp. — A general outbreak .^^ God have mercy! 

Glad. — ^Yes! But our trouble is here. Now, how 
shall we receive them ? 

Camp. — With a broadside of grape as they enter the 
portcullis. 

Glad. — To my liking, but it would bang to loudly in 
the public ear. It may be only a bluff after all, 
I have only the squaw's word. 

Camp. — ^And shooting is too clean a death for the 
villi ans. 

Glad. — What do you say Doctor.? 

Chap. — I would advise parading the garrison, armed, 
but as if nothing special were amiss. If this 
show of armament does not dismay them, their 
plans at least will be futile. If they show signs 
of war keep Pontiac as a hostage for their good 
behavior. He is their life and soul, expect no 
no trouble while he is safely here. 

Glad. — This is the scheme. Captain, assemble the 
garrison. I will myself about it. (Exit Glad, 
and Campbell) 

Chap. — ^Advise my blood-sworn enemies to jail 

My friend. It must be. It is for his good. 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 65 

His plans succeeding will but drench the land 
With blood, and will not help his cause. How 

like 
An untamed eagle caged he will pine 
And droop; and I his jailor. Merciful God, 
Why are poor human wormlings made ambitious 
And with no space to grow in ? Oh ! if he 
Might learn by any way than cruel experience 
How curst ambition is. 
But like the noble, unsuspecting elk, 
Through bush and thicket plunging recklessly, 
He scents not hiding death. 
(Assemble sounds) 

{Enter Madeleine with hair dishevelled) 

Mad. — What does this dreadful preparation mean ? 

Chap. — How ? Still awake ? 

Mad. — Good mercy, how could I sleep. These fear- 
ful sounds are period to worse dreams. What 
wars, and massacres and frightful deeds I have 
witnessed. Oh! Pitying Virgin. There! Why 
do they beat those terrible drums ? 

Chap. — Oh my poor terrified cousin, compose yourself . 
You were longing for your Roman chief. This 
is but honor to his coming. Go and attire 
yourself to receive the king. He will be more 
frightened than you if you receive him this way. 

(Exeunt) 



66 PONTIAC 

{Enter Gladwyn, Campbell, Serjeant and Soldiers) 

Glad. — Fix bayonets! When I raise my arm thus, 
sound a tatoo and bring your men to a charge. 
Do you understand. 

Ser. — Yes sir! 

(Enter a Messenger) 

Mess. — Sir, the Reds are disembarking. 

Glad. — Campbell, meet them at the gate and escort 
them here. (Exit Campbell) He is so fond of 
them. Arrange some blankets here. They 
will not sit on chairs. Some more blankets. 
That will do, we have enough. So. Serjeant, 
bring your section to attention. 

(Enter behind Madeleine, Chapoton, Mme. Chapo- 
ton, Catherine, and others. Pontiac and his chiefs 
and braves file dignifiedly in. Pontiac discovers the 
preparations and loses his composure for an instant.) 

PoN. — (Aside) Betrayed! (Aloud) Why do I see so 
many of my father's young men standing about 
with their guns ? 

Glad. — Oh! the soldiers ? They are paraded in honor 
of the council. 

PoN. — My father knows we came to smoke the calumet, 
the symbol of peace. Why does my father have 
his warriors put their knives in their guns ? 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 67 

Glad. — They are armed for the sake of discipline and 
exercise. Thus the great EngHsh Father keeps 
his warriors always ready against an unexpected 
foe. Will my children sit? {Points to the 
blankets) 

(PontiaCy with evident reluctance^ squats on the 
one prepared for him and the others follow his example. 
He glances about the hall, and, while apparently unper- 
turbed, he suggests the emotions that are burning beneath 
the surface. He sees Chapoton and gives him a friendly, 
though nervous nod. Then his eye falls on Catherine 
and his expression turns to one of rage, immediately 
blotted out by sorrow. He nearly speaks, but recovers 
himself and his eye falls on Madeline who is eyeing him 
with earnest curiosity.) 
PoN. — {To himself) Sunrise! 
Mad. — He looks ten times a hero. 
Mme. C. — But is a treacherous savage always. 
Mad. — No not he. 

{Pontiac meanwhile picks up the calumet, lights 
it, puffs gravely to the four directions and to the heavens, 
then passes it to Gladwyn. It progresses silently about 
the circle. Pontiac, with the wampum belt in his hand, 
rises and speaks.) 

PoN. — May the smoke of this calumet ascend to heaven 
as a cloud, and carry with it all animosities. 
Corlear: The path which once ran between 
your dwelling and ours has become over-run and 
choked with thorns so no one can pass that way; 
and we have almost forgotten that there was a 



68 PONTIAC 

path. I have come to clear that path and make 
a broad smooth trail that you and I may visit 
each other freely. 

Corlear: Listen to what I say; these words 
are from our hearts. My people have been one 
people; your people another. The Redmen 
hated the English because they had conquered 
our French brothers and made them sign a 
paper not to fight. The English hated the Red- 
men because they were brothers of the French. 
We were both angry and much blood has been 
spilt. Now we are sober. We know that the 
Enghsh are rulers and we wish to show our 
allegiance. 

Corlear; listen! We have planted the tree of 
peace. Its branches have grown up to heaven; 
and we may now all live under its shelter as 
brothers; one people, with one fire. 
My brothers: I have covered the bones of the 
dead so that the sight of them may no longer 
bring sorrow to our hearts ; and I have scattered 
leaves over the grave that the spot may no longer 
be remembered. 

My brothers: May the cloud that has hung so 
long over us be dispelled that the sunshine of 
peace may enter our hearts and warm them. 
The chain of friendship is burnished. It is a 
strong heavy chain that cannot be broken. One 
cannot hold it alone. Let us all take hold of it. 
My brothers that you may hear and see that the 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 69 

Redmen and the English are now one people, I 
open your ears and your eyes with this belt — 
(Gladwyn signals, tatoo sounds, etc. Pontiac 

stands conjounded. Gladwyn steps up, pulls back his 

blanket and discloses his sawed-off musket.) 

PoN. — Treachery ! 

Glad. — Yes! treachery, you savage whelps. Is this 
Your chain of friendship, this your peace.'* 
That like a pack of murderous wolves sneak in 

to slay ? 
You thought, imperious rogue, to drug our sense 
With lies, then wreak your savage butchery.? 
Now what have you to say to save your scalps ? 
Shall we not hurl your bloody massacre 
Upon your coyote heads ? Speak, cowards, speak ! 

PoN. — Is Pontiac a woman to fear the yelping of the 
English cur ? Why do you stop with words ? 
I do not fear your tortures ? Do your worst, 
for had it fallen to me, I had done mine. Proud 
chief, listen: the spirit of my fathers bids me 
speak. This land you usurp is ours. The 
Master of Life gave it to his red children to live 
on and enjoy. When you whitemen came we 
took your hands as friends. We have warmed 
a serpent in our blankets that now poisons us. 
We are cheated, basely cheated; our lands are 
stolen; our forests burned, the springs are drying 
up, the game is fled, starvation stares us in the 
face. Is not this enough ? Behind our backs 
you corrupt our young men and defile our women. 



70 PONTIAC 

Our hearts burn with rage when we see the ruin 

you bring upon us — 
Glad. — Enough of this! Serjeant, arrest him. 
Mad. — You shall not touch him. What he speaks is 
truth. 

He is the wronged, yours the treachery. 

Stand back, I say! He shall have justice. 

Go, noble Pontiac. 

(Meanwhile the Indians have been slip^ 

ping out.) 
PoN. — Sunrise! (Exit) 
Glad. — Stop him! Gone! 



Curtain 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 71 



ACT IV 

Fort Detroit: same as Act III. Time: an after- 
noon several months later. Gladwyn, Rogers, Dalzell 
and Chapoton in conversation with two Pottawatamies. 

1st. Pot.— The Pottawatamies have always loved the 
English. 

Glad.— Why did they take up the hatchet against them ? 

1st. P.~Our Grandfathers, the Delawares, sent a war 
belt to all the nations, telling them to lift the 
hatchet with Pontiac against the English. 

Glad.— But why did my children lift the hatchet if 
they did not wish to fight ? 

2sT. P. — Our young men burned at the words of Pon- 
tiac. If we had refused to lift the hatchet they 
would have slain us. 

Glad. — Will Pontiac not harm you when he hears that 
you have made peace? 

1st. p. — Our young men have grown older, and Pon- 
tiac's strength, which was as the strength of the 
north wind in winter, is now as the strength of 
Shawano, the southern breeze who wafts our 
canoes across the rippled lake. 

Glad.— (To Chapoton) What does he mean? 

Chap. — Where is old Ninevois ? 

1st. p. — With our fathers. 

Chap. — Humph ! I thought so or you would not be here. 



72 PONTIAC 

2nd. p. — My brothers: this war is neither your fault 
nor ours. We are very tired of it. It is the 
will of the Great Spirit that we should have peace. 
My brothers: we are ashamed of our bad 
conduct. We ask your forgiveness for what 
is past. We desire to take fast hold of the chain 
of friendship, but we cannot hold it alone. We 
hope that you will take hold of it also, that 
there may be peace between us. 
My brothers: You have our flesh and blood 
captive among you. We also have your flesh and 
blood captive with us. 

My brothers: it is very grievous to the Great 
Spirit to see his children captives. We there- 
fore beg that all the prisoners may be set free, 
and that this may be a sign of peace between us. 

Glad. — My children have spoken true. This war is 
not our fault, we did not wish it. But the Otta- 
was and their friends have made the sky very 
dark, and the Great Father across the sea is 
angry at the blood of his people that has been 
spilt. He is sending his army to chastise the 
Ottawas and their friends. My children have 
done well to come to me and explain that they 
took up the hatchet against their will, and that 
they now wish peace, so that I may stand be- 
tween them and the vengeance of the Great 
Father, which will surely come. He alone can 
make peace with his enemies ; but there may be 
a truce between us which his army will respect 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 73 

if I tell them that the Pottawatamies have been 
faithful. Let my children now depart for their 
captives. When they are all brought I will 
deliver my captives, and this will be a sign of 
the truce between us. 

1st. p. — My brother: we have sat very long and our 
throats are parched. Give us a little rum to 
drink lest we perish of thirst before the captives 
be set free. 

{Gladwyn gives them some rum, after which 
they depart.) 

Glad. — It goes against my stomach to sit here listening 
to their hollow yawp; but by the Gods we are 
in a fix where we must pocket our pride. Des- 
pise our smuggling friends my comissary has a 
famished look. Those thieving barbarians have 
stolen every smitch of beef and mutton in the 
country; they have eaten the fields bare like a 
plague of locusts. Do not shuffle your feet so. 
Treat your shoes kindly; we may need them 
for soup yet. 

Dal. — But these Pottawatamies; don't they really 
want peace ? 

Rogers. — If they have a good chance to fight again 
they'll not be slow to sieze it. What they want 
now is their friends that we have locked up here. 
Perhaps they have a deeper scheme. ,; 

Chap. — The trade is good so far as the prisoners go, 
and if a truce will quiet some of them for even 
a short time it is a gain. It is likely true enough 



74 PONTIAC 

that they are tired of fighting. How Pontiac 
has so long bowed the restless tribes beneath his 
will is marvellous. With no more authority 
than the respect his will commands, to hold 
these wayward savages to five months task is 
more than conquering Rome. 

{A Soldier enters^ salutes and hands Gladwyn a 
letter. Before he opens it an alarm sounds outside. 
Serjeant enters.) 

Glad. — What is it now ? 

Ser. — There be nine of the varmints, naked as they 
came into the world, and painted black from 
crown to toe. Each has a long pole from which 
flutters a short haired scalp. They are yelling 
and vaunting like a procession of tipsy torch 
bearers, just beyond musket range. May we 
drop a shot of grape among them ? 

Glad. {Looks at Chapoton knowingly.) Another 
death tale. Save your shot unless they come 
closer. If any more appear call me. 

Ser. — Yes sir! (Exit with Soldier) 

Glad. — I wonder what now.? I dread to open it. 
{Unfolds the letter) It is in French. No. Here 
it is on the back. {Reads) Maj. Gladwyn, 
Comndt. Sir: It is my sorrowful duty to report 
that Fort Sandusky is captured and — 

Rogers. — Ha! From Paully.?^ 

Glad. — {Looks at the signature) Yes. — Fort Sandusky 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 75 

is captured and all the garrison except myself 
murdered. A few weeks ago seven Indians 
called at the Fort. Knowing them well I ad- 
mitted them. We were engaged in friendly 
conversation, when, without warning I was 
suddenly knocked down and disarmed. At 
the instant the war hoop was raised and a swarm 
of hidden savages burst in on the Fort. Com- 
pletely surprised, the men were shot down help- 
lessly, or taken prisoners. The buildings were 
immediately fired. With the other captives I 
was carried from the fort and embarked in 
canoes and brought here. Since my arrival my 
companions have been murdered, one at a time, 
either by running the gauntlet, slow burning, 
hacking to pieces or other tortures too revolting 
to be described. The squaws and children do 
the torturing, the braves contenting themselves 
with looking on and applauding the spectacle; 
some however, eating the hearts and drinking 
the blood of the bravest victims. 

Chap. — Horrible, horrible. 

Dal.— The hell hounds. 

Glad. — {Continues) I myself was attacked and pelted 
with stones, expecting to be made to run the 
gauntlet; until a wrinkled old hag came to my 
rescue and offered to adopt me in place of her 
son who had been killed. Seeing no alternative 
but torture I accepted and will watch my oppor- 
tunity to escape to you. The French priest 



76 PONTIAC 

has given me this scrap of letter to write on and 

promises to get it into your hands somehow. 
I am sir, your obdt. servant. 

M. Paully, Ensign, Late Comdt. 

Fort Sandusky. 
Glad. — Good God! Did you ever hear anything like 

it. And these are your christianized savages. 
Rogers. — They are always the worst; was it not they 

who started the massacre at William Henry .^ 
Chap. — You can teach an Indian a new way of making 

medicine, but baptised or unbaptised he will 

never be more than an Indian. 
Rogers. — Poor Paully. His words are the very an- 
guish of despair. 
Dal. — No wonder. I suppose the devils brought him 

out to watch each victim tortured. 
Glad. — Think what a frail, barrier divides us from a 

like fate. 
Chap. — Sleepless vigilance is the price of our lives. 
Glad. — God help us ! If we dared sleep our thoughts 

would keep us awake. 

(Noise of yelling and barking outside) 
Dal. — ^Another uproar. Good heavens what is that now ? 

(Goes to the window) 

Squaws and dogs and kettles and what not. All 

yelping. 
Rogers. — Kettles too.^ 
Chap.— Where ? 
Dal. — Paddling down stream. 
Chap. — ^To the Wyandot village. No doubt to follow 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 77 

their murder pageant by a celebrative feast. 
Rogers. — {Looking out) Yes, they are Wyandots. 
Dal. — Where is the village.'* 
Chap. — On the other side, a mile or so below. 
Dal. — Would it not be wholesome revenge to steal 

on them when stupid with their gorge, and 

slaughter them ^ 
Chap. — Without doubt just what they would like. You 

would find them waiting. 
Glad. — I wonder how my embassy fares ? I tremble 

for it. 
Chap. — While Warsong breathes Campbell is not safe. 

{Enter Serjeant) 

Serj. — Sir, the Pottawatamies are returning with their 
prisoners. 

Glad. — How many? 

Serj. — Four, one officer and three privates. 

Glad. — Release our two Pottawatamie prisoners, not 
the Ottawa. Show the officer here and see 
that the men are made comfortable. 

Serj. — Yes sir. {Exit) 

Dal. — Can we not someway surprise them by a sally ? 

Chap. — Impossible. 

Glad. — We are too weak. We dare not try. Even 
with your new arrivals and Roger's men we have 
hardly more than enough for a double shift on 
the palisade. 

Dal. — If we sent them a barrel or two of rum by the 



78 PONTIAC 

French we might slip out and catch them maudlin. 

Chap. — Pontiac is shrewd. His suspicions would con- 
quer his love for the liquor and he would waste 
it on the ground. 

Glad. — Besides, where are you going to get the rum 
from ? Nothing to drink, nothing to eat, nothing 
to do but starve. 

Dal. — We might better die in a fight than that. 

{Enter Schlosser) 

All. — Good God! Schlosser! 

ScHL. — A poor broken fragment of him. 

Glad. — ^What of St. Joe.'^ 

ScHL. — The worst. 

Glad. — Calamity and ruin. Our ears do not stop 
ringing at one horror before another dins. 
Well, we are steeled for the worst. If there is 
such a thing. Let's hear about St. Joe. 

ScHL. — 'Tis a short sad tale. On a sunny morning 
away back in May, it seems only last week, I 
was told that a number of Pottawatamies from 
Detroit had come to visit their friends at Lake 
Huron. Shortly after Washaske and four braves 
came to my quarters as if for a friendly smoke. 

Glad. — The old, old story. 

ScHL. — At that moment a Canadian rushed in crying 
that the fort was surrounded by savages. I flew 
out to find the parade thronged with Canadians 
and Indians. I called the men to arms, we were 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 79 

a mere handful, fourteen and myself. Also 
tried to muster the Canadians; but, with a yell, 
the Reds in the fort rushed to the gate, toma- 
hawked the sentinel and opened a passage to 
their friends outside. In two minutes the fort 
was plundered, eleven of my men struck down, 
and we four, whom you have rescued, marched 
captive to the woods. 
Glad. — St. Joseph, Fort Mi chilli mackinac, 
Sandusky, Ouatanon, Fort Miami, 
Le Boeuf, Venango, Presqu' Isle and Vincennes, 
Oh! what a list. Detroit stands alone. 
Had not these blessed reinforcements come 
I should dispair. 

(Enter LaBute) 

How now ? LaBute, alone .'' 

All. — Where's Campbell ? 

Glad. — I felt it in my bones. 

Chap. — Did Pontiac — 

LaBute. — It was done without his knowledge. He 
intended only to keep him mewed up. 

Glad. — Let us hear everything as it happened. 

LaB. — Gouin warned us and I myself was loathe to go, 
but Campbell's mind was set. Their camp 
is on the rise beyond Parent's creek. A mongrel 
assortment of huts and tepees. The whole 
greasy crew, braves and squaws, youngsters and 
dogs, met us at the bridge; and at the sight of 



80 PONTIAC 

Campbeirs uniform raised such a yelping and 
howling as turned me sick. The hags picked 
up stones and clubs and I thought we would be 
made to run the gauntlet. At this moment 
Pontiac stepped forth and with a word hushed 
the clamor. Even the dogs seemed cowed and 
left off their discordant baying. Pontiac led 
us to a hut and gave us blankets to sit on. The 
braves crowded in after us. Presently Camp- 
bell arose and addressed them. They did not 
deign to answer. We sat, hours it seemed, 
nervously trying to puzzle some hope out of 
their inscrutable faces. At length, in order to 
determine our position, Campbell arose again 
and signified his intention of returning to 
the Fort. Pontiac motioned him to sit again. 
"My father will sleep tonight in the lodges of 
his Red Children"; he said. 

Glad . — Treacherous villian . 

LaB. — He led us to the house of Meloche, where after 
sending us good food he left us. I was very tired 
and after a pipe with the Captain, rolled up in 
my blanket. About midnight I was awakened 
by the sound of a scuffle in the hall and jumped 
up just in time to see Warsong dragging the 
Captain out in the night. I rushed out, but 
in a twinkling Campbell had been stripped and 
scalped, and I saw Warsong, with the ferocious 
cries and actions of a demon, eating his heart, 
his braves yelling and gulping the blood by 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 81 

handfuls. The tumult aroused the village. 

The dogs took up the noise. Pontiac rushed in, 

but Warsong and his braves had disappeared. 

Pontiac's wrath was fearful to behold. Those 

who had been drawn by the uproar scattered in 

all directions. But it avails nothing. Warsong 

and his Objibwas are fled to the north. 
Chap. — Ill-starred captain. 

Your martyrdom may prove our grace, 

Our grace, but Pontiac's ruin. 
Glad. — {Turning away) You French dog, despite 

your words you are all his friends. 
LaB. — What does he say? 
Chap. — Folly. Was Warsong painted? 
LaB. — Yes, black. He mourns his nephew who was 

killed in the skirmish Friday. 
Chap. — And this was his revenge. Why did they let 

you go ? 
LaB. — In the excitement no one marked me, and I 

had no love to stay. I slipped off through the 

woods and crossed the Savoyard. 
Glad. — It is too hazardous. 
Dal. — A soldier is prepared to undergo some hazard, 

even for honor's sake. We should scarcely balk 

at hazard when our lives and the lives of our 

women and children are at stake. 
Chap. — What is it ? 
Dal. — I propose stealing out and falling on their village 

after dark. Now, while the Objibwa defection 

has weakened them. The Pottamatawies have 



82 PONTIAC 

quit too, and the Hurons are down the river. 
The remainder cannot be very strong, and your 
weeks of idleness has dulled any suspicion of 
our attacking them. We would take them 
completely by surprise. 

Chap. — Lunacy. Surprise Pontiac ? 

Dal. — You all confess we are in a desperate fix. Then 
we must seek violent relief. I will ask for 
volunteers; none need hazard who will not. But 
I will wager my sword you can count those on 
your fingers who will not. 

Rogers. — By Gad! Jack. I'll back you. I believe it 
might be done. Can we surprise them LaBute ? 

LaB. — I think they anticipate no attack, but to sur- 
prise an Indian is not easy. 

Dal. — Now is the chance to strike. We may never 
have another so good. 

Glad. — No! It is too risky. Gentlemen, let us see 
what our comissary affords, if anything. (Exeunt) 

(Enter Catherine) 

Cath. — Catherine has heard. She will sing lies into 
the great white chief's ears and he will listen. 
The red coated warriors are very brave and 
their scalps will honor the lodge poles of the 
Ottawas. I will tell the white chief that the 
warriors beyond the creek are sleeping. They 
are sleeping; sleeping as the snake sleeps; coiled 
and ready to strike. Who is the fool now? 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 83 

Catherine or the great white chief? He told 
me to go to hell with my bastard brat. I do 
not know what that means, but it is not good. 
Fifty scalps, sixty scalps — it is enough. Some- 
one is coming. 

(Exit Catherine f enter two Habitants.) 

1st. H. — I am almost afraid to go abroad in the dusk. 

2nd. H. — The Nain Rouge is very angry. Baptiste 
saw him last night racing wildly up and down 
the shore. All of a sudden he turned, scrambled 
up the palisade and vanished as the smoke from 
my pipe. An instant later the bell of St .Anne's 
pealed out on the still night air. It was not 
rung by mortal hands. Father Boquet says 
the church was locked and the key in his pocket. 

1st. H. — God is angry at our duplicity. We have 
shaken our right hand with the English, pre- 
tending allegiance, while with our left we have 
encouraged Pontiac with lies. Had we been 
truthful God would not have left us to the 
wrath of the Nain Rouge. 

2nd. H. — Something dreadful will happen, massacre 
or fire. 

1st. H. — Well, the Doctor is not here. Let us search 
in the barracks. 

{Exeunt. Enter Gladwyn^ Catherine behind.) 



84 PONTIAC 

Glad. — (Muttering) I wonder how much the squaw 
knows. Perhaps she is lying. Bah! she hasn't 
enough sense. And there's a fair chance she 
is right; they will hardly expect an attack. 
Our case is desperate and this may be our cure. 
He will win or die. If he wins, why well for all. 
If he die. Why, we must all die sometime, 
and why not a soldier's death ? He will then 
be honored, and escape much misery. It will 
be an obstacle removed from my path to the 
fair Madeleine and her estates. I'll see him 
directly. Again much thanks to the squaw. 

(Exit) 

Cath. — (Coming forward) Coward! He will not lead 
his braves, he will send Sunrise's warrior. Well, 
I hate her too ! Though why ? She was good 
to Catherine when Catherine was sick, and 
prayed for her when the black gown said she 
would burn, burn for cursing the white chief. 
She is coming. Catherine will hide again and 
listen. (Does so) 

(Enter Madeleine singing softlyy goes to the 
window and looks out). 



SONG 

What does she reek the storm or night, 
Or the rude wind's chill embrace. 
As she strives to pierce the thickening light. 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 85 

With eager anxious face ? 
Sebastien ! 

Let the cold waves wash her bare white feet. 
And the spray dash on her cheeks. 

Her heart is warmed with a fervent heat, 
For her lover dear she seeks. 

Sebastien ! 

I wonder why those Indians are all going down 
the river ? Somehow I feel a premonition of evil. 

Her lover is the huntsman bold. 

He's taken his trusty gun. 
*'To the chace once more, just once, as of old, " 

He said, " and I am done." 
Sebastien ! 

"Oh! do not go, I fear, for last night 
I heard the screeching owl." 

"I will soon return, 'tis a silly fright. 
See! see! the flying fowl!" 

Sebastien ! 

Oh ! this was to be my wedding day. 
And I have watched since morn 

For his glad return, why does he stay 
And leave me here forlorn ? " 

Sebastien ! 



86 PONTIAC 

'Bove the moaning wind what sounds so , hark ! 

Bow wow, bow wow, bow wow! 
"I know it, it is Chasseur's bark, 

My huntsman is coming now.*' 
Sebastien ! 

Like scud across the moon it blew, 

"What phantom is't I see? 
Pointing toward the north, 'tis his canoe, 

He is paddling — away from me!" 
Sebastien ! 



Oh! blessed Virgin of Mercy, if this siege were 
only over. 

{Enter Dahell.) 

Dal. — Here you are ! I have hunted high and low. 

Mad. — Oh, my darling boy. 

Dal. — Why, what is the matter.^ 

Mad. — I feel such a horrible dread as of some im- 
pending evil shadowing us. 

Dal. — ^Why, nothing can happen. 

Mad. — So many things can. Why are all these In- 
dians going down the river ? 

Dal. — The Doctor says they are Wyandots going to 
their village down below Montreal Point, for a 
jubilee. Come, cheer up. What do you think 
of Gladwyn ? 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 87 

Mad. — He is arrogant and high tempered, but brave 
and full of stratagems. We owe our lives to him. 
His untiring vigilance and iron will have sup- 
ported us through the siege when every one 
would have fallen with fatigue and despair. 

Dal. — Courage covers a multitude of sins. 

Mad. — When Pontiac sent word he was expecting 
Keenochameck and his eight hundred warriors, 
and when they came he would not be able to 
control them, and they would scalp all the 
English, we nearly died of fright and would 
have surrendered in a moment, but Gladwyn 
sent word to Pontiac that he cared as little for 
Keenochameck or the devil himself, as he did 
for him. 

Dal. — He doesn't lack nerve. We learned that in 
the French war. 

Mad. — Look at that butterfly. How gordeous it is 
in its war paint. Perhaps it is the poor lost 
soul of some warrior lying unhouseled in the 
forest. {Taking a bit of holy bread from her 
locket.) 

Holy bread I take thee. 
If I die suddenly. 
Serve me as a sacrement. 

Dal. — Will this keep the Oki away ? 

Mad. — Impious heretic. 

Dal. — See the smoke now at the point. Your Wyandot 
friends must be having a grand celebration. 
Is their village on fire ? It is a pretty view down 



88 PONTIAC 

the river. What did you think when you saw 
us rounding the bend ? 

Mad. — We dared not think. It is pretty and peaceful 
now, but what hideous sights it has smiled on 
just as peacefully. Is it unfeeling.? They say 
the angels see our miseries and are as little 
touched; always happy and smiling. But I 
dared not even look for fear of such another 
disappointment as that of Cuyler's. I should 
have died had there been another. 

Dal. — I trust this one was not. 

Mad. — Can you think otherwise ? 

Dal. — You do not seem to be very joyful over my 
arrival. 

Mad. — Is it a time to rejoice ? This half hour between 
massacres. A thousand have fallen and whose 
turn may not be next ? 

Dal. — A soldier is trained to look on such things with 
equanimity, and so should a soldier's wife. 

Mad. — A wife of stone might. Of Jack, it is your 
very heedlessness that makes me dread — You 
will be careful, for me, love ? 

Dal. — Do not be childish. 

Mad. — But you will be, promise me you will be. 

Dal. — ^Why of course, I am not Goliath of Gath to 
slaughter the whole village. I shall not attack 
it single handed. But your carefulness has 
sort of a cowardly taint, a sneaking away from 
danger. You would not have a cowardly hus- 
band, above all a cowardly soldier husband ? 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 89 

Mad. — Bravery is not recklessness, and you are not 
fighting soldiers now. You are my whole life 
and hope now father and mother are gone, and 
if you should fall — I should die too. Perhaps 
I shall make a poor soldier's wife, but if I were 
not tender I could not love you so. For my 
sake, if you love me, dear, do nothing rash. No 
more horrors, another will kill me. 

Dal. — There, there, do not worry. You have seen 
the last horror. Tonight we beard the lion 
in his den. 

Mad.— What! 

Dal. — Yes, Gladwyn has given me permission to lead 
a detachment to surprise the village at Parent's 
Creek. 

Mad. — Did he, did Gladwyn put you up to this. 

Dal. — No, I will take the credit myself, please. It is 
my plan I suggested it. You are not as proud 
of it as I am. Be brave, be a soldier's wife, 
and encourage me a little. Wont you ? 

Mad. — Encourage you to suicide "^ 

Dal. — Suicide, nonsense. Why 'tis as safe as praying. 
The very dare will take them by surprise. They 
don't expect it. 

Mad. — What, surprise Pontiac ? You do not know 
him. 

Dal. — Why, how so, is he proof against surprise ? 

Mad. — It is nothing to jest of. Jest of ordinary men. 
This lion, as you well call him, has stretched his 
conquering paw from Presque Isle to far off 



90 PONTIAC 

Mackinac, and do you think this vexing check 
here has soothed him into slumber? He is 
desperate now and who dare's cross his wrath 
will never live to tell of it. 

Dal. — How this bugbear has frightened you. 

Mad. — You have not watched these long months as 
we have. If he had had a dozen reckless blades 
like you to back him we had long since been a 
memory. 

Dal. — If I bring you his scalp to prove he is dead will 
you still be frightened of his ghost ? I will go 
polish my sword, and look you carry your beads 
and cross tonight, for his ghost walks. (Exit) 

{Enter Catherine behind from her hiding) 

Mad. — Do not go — Catherine! 

Cath. — Is Sunrise afraid of Catherine because she 
is dark ? See, Tawiskara, the spirit of night, 
overcometh the day; so will the braves of Pontiac 
conquer the white warriors. Let the great 
chief lead his men, why should the sapling fall ? 
(Exit) 

Mad. — Gone! like a spirit of night. What does she 
mean ? "Let the great chief lead his men, why 
should the sapling fall.^" Oh Jack, you must 
not go ! (Exit) 

(Enter Chapoton and Gladwyn) 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 91 

Glad. — 'Tis dark as the pit here. Ho! bring some 
lights! {Strikes a bell) 

Chap. — It is bloody massacre to send this expedition. 

Glad. — I say 'tis safe enough. All war is risky. We 
are in desperate straits, if this succeeds we're out. 

Chap. — If it fails ? 

Glad. — We lose good men; but who talks of failing, 
only you frog-eaters who are always beaten. 
These are English soldiers. Lights, I say! 
{Striking bell) Where are the fools! 

Chap. — You know the truth as well as I. You sacrifice 
these men because you want to get rid of Dalzell 
so you may have clear sway. I tell you Made- 
leine would rather kill herself than marry her 
lover's murderer. She is a Frenchwoman! 

Glad. — Stop ! 

Chap. — Give up your plan. 

Glad. — By king! — 

Chap. — Then be proclaimed a murderer 

Glad. — Traitor! {They draiv and fight in the dark, 
soldiers rush in, some with lights) Arrest him! 
Disarm him! Let him not speak a word. 
He is in league with Pontiac to kill us all. 

{Exit soldiers with Chapoton) 
Villianous breed. He almost spitted me in the 
dark. My coat is torn. These scurvy French 
are all in league with the red devils. I wonder, 
does he think our plan will succeed and he wants 
to protect Pontiac, or does he really believe I 
am murdering these men ? No, it is not murder 



92 PONTIAC 

where they go willingly, though I might prevent 
them. Whether they go or stay, whether Dal- 
zell lives or dies, my prospects regarding the 
fair Madeleine are slim enough. I won't smooth 
things by penning up her cousin. She will be 
in a pretty stew when she hears of it. I had 
rather unarmed fight Pontiac than face her 
then. I will go release him. 

{Enter Dalzell) 

How now? 

Dal. — I am sure no hand to comfort a woman. Such 
a torrent of expostulation and tears, I was sub- 
merged,' I don't know how I swam out. After 
eight — I will parade the men. 

Glad. — Come with me. I want you to explain some- 
thing. {Exeunt) 

{Someone is heard singing out of doors; enter 
Madeleine crying.) 

SONG 

"Jf?/ little tender heart, 

Oh gait vive le roi! 
My little tender heart. 

Oh gail vive le roi! 
My mother promised it 
To a gentlemen of the king. 

Vive le roi la reine!** 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 93 

Mad. — *' My little tender heart ". Has he ever thought 
of it ? No, it is all war and glory and honor. 
What is a poor girl's heart ? Why even Pontiac 
would be kinder. 

SONG (continues) 
^'Oh say^ where goes your love? 
Oh gail vive le roi! 
Oh say, where goes your love? 

Oh gai! vive le roi! 
He rides on a white horse. 
He wears a silver sword.'' 
Vive le roi, la reine. 

Mad. — Pontiac! I see him as he stood that day, I 
see those flaming eyes, burning in the agony of 
his failure and his wrongs. Savage though 
he is he has a heart that feels and comprehends. 

"0/i grand, to the war he goes. 

Oh gail vive le roil 
Oh grand, to the war he goes. 

Oh gai! vive le roi! 
Gold and silver he will bring. 
And eke the daughter of the king. 

Vive le roi, la reine!'' 

Mad. — Yes, to the war he goes, to the north; happy 
and I so miserable. Oh Jack, why could you 
not love me as I have loved you. But you could 



94 PONTIAC 

not. Love, perhaps it is a greater thing than 
either of us knew. My heart throbs so, it seems 
Hke a dream, everything is so small and far away. 
{Sound of drums muffled and of marching heard.) 
They are going, they are going ! Oh Jack ! Jack ! 

(Enter Chapoton with his surgeons case and an 
armful of bandages.) 

Chap. — Hush, my dear. It is no time for sorrowing. 
There may be work for us tonight. We will 
arrange a temporary hospital in Sainte Anne's. 
It may be necessary for us to go out on the field. 
Courage, courage. Here is mother. 

{Enter Mme. Cha. with more paraphenalia and 
a wrap.) 

Mme. — Here is your wrap, dear. Be brave, He who 
has guarded us so long will not forsake us now. 
Chap. — Take these, Madeleine. Let us go. 

{Exeunt) 



Curtain 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 95 



ACT V 

The Bloody Run. Bridge to one side; a few 
tepees in the background. Three or four squairs en- 
gaged domesticalhj and as many braves lulling on the 
grass smoking. A squatv laden with her kettle and 
household effects staggers out just as Baby and two 
habitants enter. Time: afternoon of the same day. 

Baby. — This is Parent's Creek. 

1st. Hab. — How quiet it is here. 

Baby. — Yes, unusually so. {He stops the squ-aio and 
converses with her.) She says the Wyandots 
have all gone down to their village to feast in 
honor of their victory at Sandusky. She is the 
last straggler. 

2nd. Hab. — Are not the Ottawas here ? 

Baby. — Yes, and Sehakos' Objibwas. Warsongs have 
deserted. They are ail getting pretty tired of 
the war. I am amazed they have stuck to it 
so long. 

2nd. Hab. — Will the Wyandots return ? 

Baby. — Likely not, if they got enough scalps at 
Sandusky. Poor Pontiac, we must urge him 
to give up the fight before it is too late. 

1st. Hab. — You tried to do that once before, did you not ? 

Baby. — Yes, 'tis just one month since I was here. He 
was living then in Pelletier's cabin. We sat 



96 PONTIAC 

smoking, silently watching the crackling fire. 
Suddenly as a thought struck him, he looked up 
and spoke: "I am told the English have offered 
you a bushel of silver for my scalp." I pro- 
tested that I would never betray him. He bent 
those searching eyes on me a moment, then said : 
"My brother speaks true, I will show him that 
I believe him." And rolling up in his blanket 
he slept soundly through the night, I sleeping 
near him on my bearskin. 

2nd. Hab. — I have heard a tale to match that. Rogers, 
the English soldier, whose life he saved once, 
sent him a present, a keg of Brandy. As he was 
about to drink someone suggested that the 
brandy might be poisoned. Pontiac glanced 
up surprised that any one should talk so: "the 
man whose life I have saved has no power over 
mine", he said. 

1st. Hab. — Extraordinary man, unlike a savage. 

Baby. — No, very different. See how he has been after 
me these months to teach him the European 
method of besieging by approach and parallels. 

2nd. Hab. — Hist! he is coming. 

Baby. — ^And with the good father, no, he is going. 
Pontiac seems angry. Let us step back. 

{They do so, Pontiac enters) 

PoN. — The black gowns, the black gowns! 

Why will they never cease from plaguing us ? 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 97 

Is not our own faith good ? It teaches us 
To Hve as brothers, treat each other kindly, 
To guard our own against the common foe. 
And is not that enough? 

Old rugged oak; 
The Red Men's sheltering friend; 
His lodge, his fortress, his companion. 
Your days are many snows, and you have seen 
Your children gayly pattering out at dawn. 
With quaking step come tottering home at dusk 
In white and wrinkled age. Good old man. 
You fate is linked with ours, your children must 
Fight for you. 

Come from behind those bushes ! 
Were your tracks hidden I could smell you out. 
Ugh! Your stuffy lodges, must you bring 
Their vile stench with you into this pure air ? 
{Baby and Hah. step out.) 

PoN. — My brothers, you are welcome. We have fought 
Well for you. Only Fort Detroit has 
Not fallen. The Great Spirit has reserved it 
That you might share the glory of the conquest. 
Where are the promised war canoes .'' Has not 
Onontio ended his sleep yet? My brothers — 

2nd. Hab. — You call us brothers, you pretend to be a 
friend to the French, and yet you plunder us 
of our hogs and cattle, you trample upon our 
fields and when you enter our houses your 
tomahawk is raised. When our French father 
comes from Montreal with his great army, he 



98 PONTIAC 

will hear what you have done, and instead of 
shaking hands with you as brethren, he will 
punish you as enemies. 

PoN. — My brothers: I do not doubt that this war is 
very troublesome to you, for our warriors are 
continually passing and repassing through your 
settlements. I am sorry for it, do not think 
that I approve of the wrong that is done. If 
you will tell Manitosiou the number of hogs 
and cattle that has been taken, I will repay 
everything when the war is over. See, I will 
give my promise as the Longknives do. {Tears 
a 'piece of bark from a birch and scratches an otter 
thereon.) There, Manitosiou will mark the 
number. (Hands it to %nd Hab.) 

2nd. Hab. — ^A promissary note. 

1st H. — Signed with an otter. 

Baby. — His totem. 

PoN. — My brothers: I have never wished to do you 
harm. It is not to revenge myself alone that 
I make war on the English. It is to revenge 
you my brothers. When the English insulted 
us, they insulted you also. I know that they 
have taken away your arms and have made you 
sign a paper that they have sent home to their 
own country. Therefore you are left defense- 
less. I will revenge your cause and mine to- 
gether. I will destroy the English and leave 
not one on our lands. 

Baby. — ^What shall I tell my brother.? He knows 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 99 

that the paper is signed and that our hands are 
tied. 
PoN. — I know that there are many among you who 
take part with the English. I am sorry for 
them. They do not know that you and I are one ; 
that it is for both our interests that I should 
be revenged. 

My brothers: how long will you suffer this bad 
flesh to remain upon our lands .'* I tell you 
again, when I took up the hatchet it was for 
your good. The English must perish through- 
out Canada. The Master of Life commands 
it, and you, who know him better than we, wish 
to oppose his will. Until now I have said 
nothing on this matter. I have not urged you 
to take part with us in the war. It would have 
been enough if you had been content to sit quiet 
upon your mats looking on while we were 
fighting for you. But you have not done so. 
You call yourselves our friends, and yet you 
assist the English with provisions, and go about 
among our villages as spies. You must be 
wholly French or wholly English. If you are 
French, lift the hatchet with us; if you are 
English, we declare war on you. 
My brothers: I know that this is a hard thing. 
We are all alike children of the great father, the 
King of France, and it is hard to fight among 
brethren for the sake of Dogs. But there is 
no choice. 



100 PONTIAC 

Baby. — Oh! my brother: it is even too late now. The 
Great French Father has sealed a peace with 
the English. The paper is written, the hatchet 
buried, and the calumet smoked. We are 
bound, we must submit, and so must my bVother. 

PoN. — Submit! Does the war-eagle who flies scream- 
ing, darting fire arrows, does he submit ? Not 
if every feather be plucked from his wing. Has 
he not beak and talons ? The French Father 
is a coward and a traitor. He may strip me 
of my feathers, but the English will feel my 
talons. Pontiac does not submit! 

Baby. — It is futile to try and convince him. 

2nd. H. — Quite useless. 

Baby. — My brother: {Takes his hand) I have come to 
beg of you to bury the hatchet while there is 
yet time. To burnish the chain of friendship — 

PoN. — Do you speak of friendship with those dogs ? 
Do you speak of peace ? There is no peace. 
Vincennes is fallen; Presque Isle is ours; can 
any pale-face tell the story of Miami ? Where 
are the Red-coats of Michillimackinac ? Ask 
Schlosser who is left at St. Joe. Two thousand 
scalps are taken, and do you speak of peace? 
Pontiac will bury the hatchet when the last 
wolf is slain or driven from our hunting ground. 

Baby. — He is deaf to any words of ours. 

2nd. H. — Implacable. 

(Exeunt Baby and Habitants) 

PoN. — Lies, and lies! Where are the war canoes 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 101 

they promised, the thunder sticks, the tribes of 
warriors who would sweep the English carrion 
from the land? All Hes! This is our reward 
for fighting their battles! They have signed 
this paper like women to become squaw slaves 
of the English. They who we thought so great 
and brave; they, whom we loved and served! 
Ugh! rotten wood, rotten wood; glowing, but 
false and worthless. Fool to have trusted them. 
The rascally Objibwa dogs have fled with 
Warsong. A few have stayed with Sekahos, 
but the Pottawatamies are useless. The Hurons 
are the best fighters, but they are tired. They 
are feasting in their village, and I do not know 
if they will return. Only my own Ottawas are 
faithful, and they must hunt soon or they will 
starve this winter. Oh, my children, why 
cannot you forget your weariness and your 
bickerings now. The heavens and earth are 
leagued against you. Can you not see the 
hazard of the future. But they are discouraged. 
We must strike quick or all is lost. 

{Enter Catherine) 

Catherine! An hour ago and I had killed you, 

now my spirit is too wearied. 
€ath.— Death does not frighten when the fire of 

hatred eats the heart. 
PoN.— What do you mean ? Who do you hate now ? 



102 PONTIAC 

Cath. — Listen! greatest of warriors, then kill. The 
young brave who is Sunrise's warrior, has come. 
He is fierce and eager as the cougar cub who 
smells blood. The great chief is jealous and 
seeks to kill him, but dares not because of Sun- 
rise. He will send the cub here tonight with 
his warriors. 

{Points to the bridge and disappears.) 

PoN. — Tonight! Sunrise' warrior. The Redcoats 
here to-night. The Master of Life has heard 
our prayers, it is Michabo's will. (Calls, 
ManitosioUy Sekahos, and others enter, Pontiac 
motions them to seat in a circle, and after con- 
sulting Manitosiou addresses them.) 

PoN. — {To Man.) — The English attack us here tonight. 
Send someone to recall the Wyandots. Crazy 
Wolf will go. 

{Manitosiou goes out and afterward returns.) 

PoN. — My brothers: the Master's ear is turned towards 
his Red Children. He has heard their prayers. 
Tonight he sends the Redcoats marching into 
ambush. They think to find us sleeping, but 
the warrior's eye does not close. 
My brothers: Conceal your warriors behind 
these trees. Let them scatter silently. Caution 
them not to fire until the Redcoats reach the 
bridge, then close in behind and shoot. Let 
the women and children leave the village quietly 



A DRA]\L\ OF OLD DETROIT lOS 

and so toward the lake to be safe out of reach 
of flying shots. 

My brothers: destroy the bad flesh, let not one 
Englishman return to brag of his escape. Only 
the boy chief, capture him alive, he is Pontiac*s 
prize. 

My brothers: the Great Spirit w^ll \'indicate his 
children's \sTongs. Our dead shall be avenged 
and we shall gain much glory. Let us strike 
like the thunder-bird, swift and terrible. 
Sek. — My brother has spoken well. The warrior's 
eye does not close. We shall drink deep of 
veangeance and glory. Vse hasten to obey 
the words of Pontiac. 

{Exeunt Sekahos and Chiefs. A moment later 
Squaics and Children file, unth scared looks, across 
the stage, carrying Papooses and household treasures 
(Afterwards the Warriors conceal themselves.) 

PoN. — Pile up the fire that we may see to shoot, 

Dead wood was made to burn, it burns the 

brightest. 
Ah I Manitosiou, our fortunes once 
Again are cast into the hazard now. 
And lost or won tonight. My spirit hopes. 
And yet a certain melancholy broods 
Within. Oh Master of Life, if thou demandst 
A sacrifice of blood, let it be mine. 
But give my people ^^ctory. 



104 PONTIAC 

Why, I am growing old, that Pontiac 
Should stub his toe, yet 'tis a good fault. Most 
Men, nowadays, see not the stars; they walk 
With eyes fixed on the mire, the airy tree-tops 
Are strangers to them, but, let us look higher, 
Although we sometimes stumble. 
(Sound of a Woman screaming in agony.) 
PoN. — Catherine is caught. 

I know her voice, I cannot help her now. 

{Enter an Indian) 

Who was that screaming ? 
Ind. — The betrayer Catherine. She will not betray 

us again. Here is her heart. It is a very bad 

heart. (Gives it to Pontiac) 

PoN. — Catherine's heart, still beating. 

I did not think to have it this way Catherine. 

Now she is dead whose soul was always dead; 

And yet I loved her once. We must all die; 

Are not those happier who are dead now ? Hush! 

They come, spare the boy chief for Pontiac. 

(All conceal themselves. After a few moments 
muffled marching is heard and the English advance 
guard enters and halts on the bridge.) 

Serj. — (Whispers) Still as the grave. This bright 
fire and no one near. I fear an ambush. 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 105 

{Order comes from the rear to march on; the 
guard advances and the van led by Dalzell, marches 
across the bridge. Indians open fire from all sides. 
The English stand confused not knowing which way 
to fire as no foe is visible. Dalzell vainly attempts to 
rally them. They fall back in disorder. The Ser- 
jeant drops wounded and Dalzell dashes forward in an 
attempt to save him. The Indians in admiration of 
his bravery hold their fire; but an Objibwa leaps out 
and tomahawks him from behind. There is a yell of 
disapproval from the Indians and Pontiac in rage 
rushes forward and stabs the Objibwa. Exeunt 
soldiers, Indians pursuing.) 

PoN. — Sunrise's warrior. Brave and worthy of her. 
Vile Objibwa dog, die Hke a coward. 

{Bending over Dalzell) 
Too late, intrepid spirit thou art fled. 
With heroes thou shalt feast, 
On the great hunting ground. Sunrise's warrior. 

{Enter Manitosiou) 

Man. — The Objibwas burn with rage that he is slain. 
{Pointing to the body of the Objibwa.) 

{Enter Sekahos, followed by several of his Warriors, who 
stop behind and scalp the dead English lying around.) 

Sek. — Dog of an Ottawa ! why have you shed our blood ? 



106 PONTIAC 

Is this our thanks for fighting your battles ? 
We will fight no longer lest we grow angry and 
slay you. We go to the Saginaw. 

{Exit followed by his Warriors.) 
PoN. — (Bitterly) Murderers, murderers. Let them go 
then. Pontiac is turned a woman. These 
eaters of children flout him to his face and he 
cannot answer. 

{Enter Crazy Wolf) 

C. W. — The Hurons will not return. They have many 
scalps and are tired. The hatchet is buried 
and they have sent to beg peace of the En- 
glish. (Exit) 

{Noise of the firing ceases and the Ottawa War- 
riors straggle hack, some with scalps). 

PoN. — Only the Ottawas left. My poor brave handful. 
And victory so near. 

Dispair and gloom sink on me like a dank 
Night fog. The clouds have conquered. Pon- 

tiac's sun 
Is hid, never to shine again, never. 
Oh ! my children ; I have fought bravely for you ; 
If you had fought so well — but that is past now. 
No more plans now, no cunning stratagems; 
Never shall I lead the painted braves 
To war again, and see the fluttering plumes, 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 107 

And hear the echoing cry resound; nor shall 
I ever sit in council with the wise 
And noble sachems; never dance again 
The rousing war-dance. Never more again. 
The warrior Pontiac is dead. My children; 
I see the future like a threatening storm, 
Black and destructive, sweeping down on you. 
The springs are dry, the game is fled, the squaws 
And little one;^ are starving. Wolfish whites 
Engorge the land. In shameless lethargy 
The braves lie drunk with poison spirit water; 
Sunk in the sloth and vice of white corruption, 
Dispised by all. Destruction shadows you. 
Oh! my people, Pontiac tried to save 
You, but you did not care. Now he is gone. 
His spirit turns toward the setting sun; 
The home of warriors; there he will find rest. 
Oh, Master of Life, thou willst that we should 

fall. 
We know not why, but thou best knowest ; grant 
Us courage to obey thy will unquestioning. 

{His eye jails on the body of Dalzell.) 
Sunrise ! 

Is thy sky over-cast, must thou mourn too ? 
Thou longest for thy brave who does not come. 
Thou twice saved Pontiac, shall he forget ? 
Oh! Manitosiou! 

(Re-enter Manitosiou) 



108 PONTIAC 

Man. — My brother calls ? 

PoN. — Sad too ? Oh, Manitosiou, grieve not, 

We have fought well, the Master will commend 
us. 

We could do no more. 
Man. — The victory, 

If such it can be called, has cost us dear. 

A handful of Ottawas left. 
PoN. — Too few, our hope 

Is at an end. Tell them to seek, before 

It be too late, their winter hunting grounds. 

First fetch me the Black-gown's robe. 

{Exit Man.) 
PoN. — Too late. Oh, had my warriors had her spirit; 

Why must I think of that again. That is 

All past. Will she regret that Pontiac is fallen ? 

{Re-enter Manitosiou with the goivn,) 

Ah, the gown so quickly, see, you tore it. 
Man. — It came not easily. He fought and cursed. 

He will not curse again. 
PoN. — They would strip us of everything, now he is 

stripped. At last he has done us some good. 

Dominus Vobiscum. 

Come warrior, to our last conquest. 
Man. — My brother, where are you going ? 
PoN. — To the fort, to Pontiac's last sunrise. 
Man. — ^Are you mad ? It is death. 
PoN. — No, not yet. That is too much happiness. 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 109 

Shall Pontiac forget the squaw, braver than any 
man, who dared to save him ? Come warrior. 
{Starts to pick up the body, Chapoton and 
Madeleine enter behind, examining each body, 

Man. — Look, who is there. 

PoN.— 'Tis they. 

Mad. — Not here, not here. Where have they taken 

him? 
Chap. — ^Where ? where ? See, there is the Father, 

let us ask him. 
PoN. — Dominus Vobiscum. 
Chap, and Mad. — Et cum spiritu tuo . 
Chap. — Holy Father, can you tell us where the body — 
Mad. — (Seeing the body of Dalzell) Oh! {She kneels 

over the body and caresses it.) 
PoN. — Sunrise's warrior was very brave. The Great 

Spirit has chosen him to lead His warriors. 

Pontiac tried to save him for Sunrise, but he 

is old now and his arm is weak. 

{Gladwyn disguised as a Habitant enters behind 
with Baby, LaBute and Habitants unth spades, a Priest 
with them.) 

PoN. — He cannot restrain his young men. His people 
will no longer obey him. He will lead them 
to war no more. 

Chap. & Mad. — {Recognizing him, suppressedly) Pon- 
tiac! 



110 PONTIAC 

FoN. — Hush! do not betray me, my brother, my poor 
clouded Sunrise. My warriors can fight no 
longer. Let them be at peace if they will. 
Pontiac will never be a friend of the English. 
He will be a wanderer in the woods, far to the 
westward, with his friends, the Illinois. But 
if the English come to seek him there he will 
shoot at them while he has an arrow left. If 
my young men had had the spirit of Sunrise our 
hunting grounds would have been purged with 
blood of our enemies. But they have the hearts 
of squaws. Now my children will all die. 
They have not poured the whiteman's poison 
on the ground and it will kill them. Pontiac 
is weary. He will soon make a long journey 
to the lodges of his fathers. The memory of 
Sunrise will strengthen his heart and encourage 
him on the long way. 

Glad. — Pontiac! 

PoN. — {Throwing aside the rohe) Yes, it is I Pontiac. 
My people are scattered, their hunting grounds 
are yours, but I will not beg for peace. I 
hate you English wolves. 

Glad. — You escaped me once, you shall not this time. 
{Draws a sword from under his cloak and springs 

at Pontiac. Madeleine interposes and receives the blow.) 

Mad. — Quick, to the woods, Sunrise's heart goes 
with you. Oh! 

Glad. — Rash girl. 

Mad. — Better so. Oh! Jack, Auntie, Jean. Is he 



A DRAMA OF OLD DETROIT 111 

gone ? Oh ! 

Chap. — My noble girl, why did you ? Your life is 
worth twenty of his. 

Mad. — No, not one. They are all gone, why should 
I stay ? Oh ! Has he escaped ? 

Chap. — He has dear. He has gone. 

Mad. — Thank God! I am happy now. I shall see 
Jack and — Pontiac. Good bye. We shall all 
meet in the Lodges of our fathers. 
{Tlie priest steps forward to her. In the dis- 
tance is heard the wailing of Manitosiou.) 

lamentation 

Mourn for Pontiac, cry sorroivfully. 

Who is left to save my people? 

The squaws are starving, I hear the wailing 

of the papooses. 

Thou earnest forth as the sun in his glory; \ 

Thou ivast painted icith the colors of the dawn; 

Thy feathers icere as clouds in the east. 

Thou wast terrible to thy enemies. 

Thy arrows were as the swift lightning. 

The blows of thy war club resounded like the 

thunder, 
As a mighty oak thou spreadest thy branches 

over my people. 
Now thou art fallen; 

In the stillness of the forest thou art fallen. 
Curtain 



JAN 6 ^^^0 



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